


Scrubbing Bubbles

by MargaretKire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Biting, Derek trying really hard not to be creepy and failing, Knotting, M/M, Masturbation, Mention of blood, Not really so much by Stiles yet, Rimming, Scent Kink, Stiles the cleaning lady, Well sorta known, but he really really doesn't get how the scent thing works, okay Stiles finally gets the whole scent thing, okay now he knows about werewolves, scent fixation, thank god it happened before Derek had a heart attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2018-12-13 01:07:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11748945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MargaretKire/pseuds/MargaretKire
Summary: Stiles thought it would be easy doing janitorial work for an office. At first, it really was. The job only took a few hours in the evenings and it helped pay for rent and college. Sure, Hale Industries took up an entire floor in one of the downtown financial buildings, but the place was new and easy to care for. He didn’t even have to spend much time cleaning the huge corner office, because the trash was nearly always empty and the office itself was spotless, like no one used it.It was basically the perfect college job. At least, until the boss started staying late.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Harlanhardway (Target44)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Target44/gifts).



> So, I wrote this. I needed something fun and I am obsessed with Sterek. Plus, Stiles as a cleaning lady? :)

Stiles thought it would be easy doing janitorial work for an office. At first, it really was. The job only took a few hours in the evenings and it helped pay for rent and college. Sure, Hale Industries took up an entire floor in one of the downtown financial buildings, but the place was new and easy to care for. He didn’t even have to spend much time cleaning the huge corner office, because the trash was nearly always empty and the office itself was spotless, like no one used it.

 

It was basically the perfect college job. At least, until the boss started staying late.

 

At first, Stiles was skeptical he even existed. The corner office was seriously a ghost town when he started his shift at seven. The rest of the office showed signs of life, even if everyone had already left for the night. There were coffee mugs scooched up next to monitors, sweaters hung over the backs of chairs and, of course, copious amounts of trash. So much trash. Papers and bottles and take-out containers. People lived at these desks for nine hours a day and it showed. But the big corner office, that was a different story altogether.

 

Once in awhile there was a slip of paper in the can by the desk. Or a small, ground-up pile of shreds in the shredder bin. But never anything personal. No used tissues or paper plates still crusty with frosting from employee birthday cake. No scribbled on Post-its or globs of gum. Even the surface of the desk itself was gleaming and unmarred, no fingerprints or coffee rings.

 

Stiles decided that the room was just for show. Maybe they brought important guests in here just to impress them, before taking them to the conference room down the hall. Stiles didn’t know. He’d never worked in an office. The closest he’d gotten was visiting his dad at the police station, and he was pretty sure that anyone using this upscale five-star Hilton of an office would not kick their legs up on the desk while inhaling donuts.

 

So when Stiles walked into the executive office on a Tuesday and there was an actual flesh-and-blood man seated behind the sleek desk, he came to a stumbling halt, staring blatantly. All he could think was, _This guy is the boss?_ He looked only a handful of years older than Stiles himself. Except that this GQ model of a man had obviously never had a cleaning job in his life, let alone having to eek himself through college on a shoestring budget. Why hadn’t Stiles been born into a corner office like this dude? Life was so unfair.

 

The guy kept his eyes on his computer, not even glancing up. Stiles waited a good ten seconds. Maybe he was just finishing up a sentence in a memo or something and would acknowledge Stiles when he got to a stopping point. Or not. The impossibly stunning man just kept on typing, as if he were the sole being in the universe. In his own mind, maybe he was. Who was Stiles to judge?

 

With the other office folk, Stiles usually took being ignored as an indication to go about his work, checking trash bins and looking for obvious spills and the like, before asking whoever had stayed late if they minded him breaking out the Orek. He sighed silently to himself, figuring that the boss _(He couldn’t be the boss! There was no way this dude was more than thirty, tops!)_ was one of those guys. The ‘I’m too cool for the planet let alone noticing the lowly worm who changes the urinal cake’ type of guy.

 

Well, he was getting paid whether Mr. Wuthering Heights acknowledged him or not, so Stiles hopped to it, doing his usual clockwise sweep of the room, keeping an eye out for the clutter that marked the other employee offices and cubicles. He really didn’t need to bother, there never was anything for him to clean up, but he had a job to do, and never let is be said that Stiles Stilinski, cleaner extraordinaire, was a slacker. He wiped at spotless shelves, just to make himself appear useful - not that the guy was paying any attention to him - and tossed out the pitiful amount of debris from the paper shredder bin.

 

It wasn’t until he had to walk right past the dark-haired man to check the windowsills (and wow, was this guy unfairly gifted with the chiseled-out-of-marble-by-the-gods gene, or what?), that the boss looked up sharply, nostrils flaring on his shockingly-symmetrical face. He slammed back in his office chair and pinned Stiles with a look that read as shock-bordering-on-terror.

 

Stiles jumped about a foot and let out dying yodel. There was no way the guy hadn’t noticed him coming into the office. That reaction was way too over-dramatic, even if Stiles _had_ startled the guy. But he’d been walking around on the far side of the room for like, five minutes. Maybe he was deaf? Well, at any rate, Sir Ebony-Eyebrows-and-Alabaster-Brow definitely saw him now, what with the whole wide-eyed staring thing he was doing. Then, just as abruptly, he returned to his computer screen, silent, ignoring Stiles like his life depended on it. All right then.

 

Stiles slowly backed away, trying not to get any more violent reactions out of the guy, noting that his perfectly shaped nostrils were still flared and that the guy was breathing heavily, like he’d been running. Other than that, he was stock-still, his eyes not even moving across the screen, just staring at it blankly. The guy might be gorgeous, but he was super creepy. Stiles decided that the office was more than clean enough and fled.

 

For the rest of the week, Stiles crept into the corner office cautiously, and, on the rare occasion the guy was there, he would empty the trash cans and check the coffee table for used glasses or coffee mugs (there never were any), then slip back out with a sigh of relief to go squirt Windex on anything that stood still long enough.

 

The following week, there must have been a financial crisis or some big quarterly something-or-other, because Abercrombie & Fitch started working late every night. It was true that a lot of people at the office worked late from time to time, but it was rare to see the same person four nights in a row. If Stiles had thought that nearly a solid week of carefully cleaning around the boss would get him a hello or even a glance, he was sorely mistaken.

 

Not all of the workers were friendly, but most made an effort if they happened to notice him around the office. Some would thank him as he emptied their trash, while others would politely ignore him. Once in awhile someone would chat with him for a few minutes as he restocked the paper towels in the breakroom or wheeled the plastic janitor’s cart down the long hallway to the bathrooms.

 

So, having one more body to vacuum around wasn’t too much of an issue for him, especially as Mr. Corner Office was one of the silent ones. Really, eerily silent. Like he was always holding his breath when Stiles was in the room with him.

 

On Thursday that week, Stiles found himself scrubbing the outside of the beige trash bin in the kitchen. It always amazed him how a group of such structured and organized people could seemingly never get all of the coffee grounds _inside_ the garbage can on the first go. He was squatting down in front of the thing, going to town with a Magic Eraser, when one of the cubical residents found him.

 

“Hey buddy,” the guy said, his voice disproportionately loud for the overall size of the kitchen and his proximity to Stiles. It was that weirdo from finance, the one who always had some long story to tell him. Stiles internally groaned.

 

“Hi, Mr. Finstock,” he said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice, not that the man would even have noticed. He seemed to be oblivious to the thoughts and feelings of those around him.

 

“Listen, the trick to staying motivated is to remember that life is just a crazy dream that you only wake up from by dying, so you just give it your all, right?” The guy’s hair sort of levitated over his head. Stiles stared for a moment, never able to figure out how it stayed like that; a soft brown cloud as insubstantial as smoke, hovering over the fleshy dome. “So, I just tell myself, enjoy it, you know? Like, get what you can now, cause who the hell knows what will happen once that celestial alarm clock goes off, am I right?”

 

“Interesting theory, Mr. Finstock. I’ve always thought-”

 

“The secret is to eat a lot of vegetables with carotene,” Finstock continued passionately. Stiles nodded at the non-sequitur, settling in for a long ramble as a passive participant. He turned back to the coffee-splattered can, deciding he might as well work while he pretended to listen.

 

About ten minutes later, the sink was bleached to a high gleam, the mysterious source of the funky smell in the fridge had been dealt with (Stiles hadn’t looked too close at the contents of the Tupperware as he double-bagged it without opening the lid and tossed it in his cart trash), and all the coffee supplies had been restocked. Stiles sighed and turned his attention to trying to get away from the prattling office worker. Finstock was leaning comfortably against the counter, gesturing wildly and completely blocking Stiles' way to the door.

 

“Have you ever experimented with lucid dreaming?” the guy asked, and as Stiles was drawing breath to say something polite that would just be ignored anyway, they were both startled by the sudden appearance of Mr. Corner Office behind Finstock in the doorway.

 

“I am waiting for the Thompson report,” the Greek god said in a quiet voice that somehow managed to send chills up Stiles' spine.

 

“Y-yes, Mr. Hale, sir,” Finstock squeaked, before angling past his boss and scurrying back to his cubicle.

 

Stiles managed to close his mouth, but he couldn’t really do anything about the stare he was giving the guy. He had known this guy was important, but, _Mr. Hale?_ As in, the owner of the entire multinational Hale corporation? How had he not known that he worked here? He’d thought he was in New York, or like, Europe. Somewhere fancy.

 

Stiles' skin felt weird and he realized that he’d broken out into goosebumps. It was one of the more surreal moments of his life, standing in a kitchen, holding a rag in one hand and Murphy’s Oil Soap in the other, staring at one of the wealthiest men in America. A man holding a dirty coffee cup.

 

“Oh here, let me,” Stiles said, suddenly remembering that he was essentially a cleaning lady (mental snort, but sadly, so much truth), as he reached out to grab the cup from Mr. Hale, intending to wash it. Unfortunately, the guy seemed to want to keep his mug cootie-free, pulling it back at the same time, causing Stiles to misjudge the cup-grabbing force needed, and sending his hand crashing into the mug, cold coffee splashing all over both of their hands. Stiles, being in a short-sleeved shirt, only got his bare hand doused, but Mr. Hale was wearing a shirt that was probably worth more than Stiles' jeep had been brand new, the light blue fabric getting soaked with brown liquid.

 

Stiles froze.

 

Mr. Hale froze.

 

They stared at each other, Stiles with a look of horror, and Mr. Hale with a fierce, “going-to-eat-you-alive” glare.

 

Shit.

 

_Shit._

 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” Stiles managed, his voice barely above a whisper. He was going to get fired. He was so going to get fired, and then he wouldn’t be able to make rent or college payments, or buy curly fries, or-

 

Without a word, Mr. Hale shoved the mug at him and stormed out.

 

Oh, Stiles was so fired.

 

Alone and holding a mug of cold coffee, he turned back to the sink and dumped the small remaining amount down the shiny drain, blearily looking around the kitchenette and wondering if he should try and steal any of the granola bars he knew where stashed in the cupboard. He would have to find a way to feed himself until he could get a new job, after all. Stills looked down at the cup in his hand. Robin, complete with his little mask and cape, stared back at him. Huh. Interesting choice. Most people would have gone for Batman. He ran his thumb over the faintly raised lines of the superhero’s inked hair, crisp against the deep blue background. Stiles couldn’t steal from a guy who liked DC comics, despite the fact that he wore Armani and had an office larger than Stiles' apartment. He blew out a long breath as he sudsed-up Robin’s face with Palmolive.

 ***

Scott was an idiot. Sometimes Stiles questioned his decision to live with the human disaster, best-bro-in-the-world status notwithstanding. But Scott was also sometimes awesome, so it usually evened out and made Stiles' life bearable. Tonight was not one of those nights.

 

“I didn’t mean to!” Scott wailed, clutching the empty container of leftover hot and sour soup. The soup itself was spreading its congealed way all over the their kitchen floor. For something that was so good fresh out of the huge tareen in the back of Asian Jade Express, it truly was the most disgusting thing Stiles had ever seen crawling its way across their hardwood floor.

 

“I just mopped yesterday,” Stiles said, voice taking on the faintest hint of a whine. His eyes helplessly followed the mini tsunami of slithering broth, bright yellow strips of bamboo along for the ride like tiny driftwood.

 

“I’m so sorry. It just slipped right out of my hands. I was going to heat it up for both of us.”

 

“I used the expensive floor stuff,” Stiles continued, watching in pain as a rivulet of soup darted it’s way under the refrigerator. “The basil stuff. The ‘smells really good’ stuff. Comes in a fancy bottle. With a mountain on it.”

 

Scott stared at him helplessly for another minute. “I’ll clean it up, don’t worry,” he finally said. He meant it too, which was the truly heartbreaking part. Scott really would do his best to clean up. He would spend a long time pushing the soup around with paper towels, unwittingly spreading it under the cabinets and stove, spraying at it with lemon polish, all while tracking it through the house on his shoes.

 

Stiles held his face in his hands for a moment. They still smelled like Windex.

 

“I just cleaned for two and a half hours at my job,” he said through his glass-cleaner scented fingers.

 

“Man, I know. I got this.”

 

“Do you though, Scottie? Do you?”

 

“Uh… yeah?”

 

“Tell me how you are going to go about cleaning this mess up. What’s step one?”

 

“Uh…”

 

“Exactly. Get out.” Stiles looked at his best friend's face, Scott’s eyes growing huge, every line of his body reading as remorseful. Stiles sighed. “Go get us some food.” Scott nodded and backed towards the apartment door, fumbling for his keys and wallet. _"Not Chinese!”_ Stiles hollered at the closing door. Then he turned his attention back to the Great Hot and Sour Sea. 

***

An hour later, Stiles and Scott sat on the couch eating the last of the take-out food, which had included two large curly fries all for Stiles. For as dumb as Scott was, he could sometimes be pretty smart. Scott heaved a sigh of contentment and smiled over at Stiles, already having forgotten the recent disaster he’d caused in the kitchen. Stiles smirked to himself, wondering if Scott would even notice that the towels that had sacrificed themselves to the soup gods had been his, may they rest in peace.

 

“I might make it into that fraternity after all,” he announced in that Scott-like way of just saying things like the other person in the conversation could read his thoughts. Thankfully, Stiles practically could.

 

“Oh yeah? Good for you, man.” Stiles honestly couldn’t care less about all that stuff. He was going into information systems with a dash of computer animation on the side. There was no way he belonged in a fraternity. The mere thought made him break out in hives.

 

“Yeah, it’s super elite,” Scott said, for about the millionth time.  

 

“It certainly is douchey,” Stiles said pleasantly, slurping down the last of his malt and petting his food baby fondly.

 

 _“Exclusive,"_ Scott corrected.

 

“Don’t they, like, only initiate people with weird health issues, or something?” Stiles asked, suddenly remembering why he’d found that particular frat super odd. Stiles was all for helping people with disabilities, but a frat based on that? Super weird.

 

Scott shrugged. “I mean, sorta? But, like, I think they help rehabilitate them or something? Cause the three members they have now don’t have anything noticeably wrong with them and they are all sort of, well, _perfect.”_

 

“Uh-huh,” Stiles said, only half paying attention, trying to deter a rose-colored Scott-interpretation of events that were likely to be super mundane in the cold light of day.

 

No such luck.

 

“This one guy, Jackson, had like, scoliosis or something, you know, with his back, and now he doesn’t. And he’s the lacrosse team captain and-”

 

“Hold on… isn’t that the asshole Lydia Martin is dating?” Stiles asked, his voice dripping with disdain. Lydia hadn’t been the sweetest person in highschool, but she deserved a lot better than that entitled jerkwad. “Wait, how can a _fraternity_ fix something like that? Do they have like, a fund or something? Am I the only one that thinks this is super weird?”

 

Scott looked at him pityingly. “All I know is, he joined the frat and now he plays sports, okay?”

 

Stiles softened. “Scott, bro, they probably won’t be able to do anything about your asthma. I mean, it would be amazing if they could, but your mom’s a nurse, and even she said you're managing it the best way medical science knows how.”

 

Scott’s mouth went tight. “Maybe not,” he said, shrugging. “But what’s the harm in trying?”

 

And yeah, okay, Stiles had to give him that. What _was_ the harm in trying? “No, you’re right.” Stiles gave him a tired smile. He really just needed to go to bed at this point and leave solving the world’s problems for tomorrow. “If joining a frat makes you a happy camper, then I’m all for it, dude. Just keep Jackson out of this apartment and I think I can deal.”

 

Scott gave a smirk, his icy demeanor melting immediately “Thanks, dude.”

 

“Anything for you. Light of my life. Bell of my tower. Canta of my loupe-”

 

“Stop! Just go to bed. Rest up for your maid job tomorrow.”

 

Stiles gave a robust squeak at that. “I am _not_ a maid.”

 

“Uh-huh. I bet you wear a little white apron and carry a feather duster.”

 

“It’s a Swiffer and I have never owned an apron in my life.”

 

“Okay. I believe you.”

 

“Are you picturing me like the French maid from Beauty and the Beast?”

 

“Uh… No?”

 

“I hate you.”

 

“Love you too, cheri.”

 

“Oh my god. Goodnight.”

 

“Bonne nuit,” Scott said, batting his eyelashes. Stiles couldn’t help but laugh as he stumbled down the hallway to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He had the most ridiculous best friend. His smile melted away as he reached for his toothbrush and saw that one of his knuckles had cracked open, raw and chapped from cleaning. Dealing with the soup disaster hadn’t helped any. He rinsed the blood away, knowing that he was really just making the problem worse. The more he washed his hands, the drier and more irritated they got. Maybe he needed lotion or something.

 

Shrugging, he turned back to the mirror, distracting himself by singing into his toothbrush and doing a few experimental dance moves that were best left between himself and the grumpy-looking Iron Man on his toothbrush. Just for a brief moment, between wondering if he should buy the entire set of Avengers kiddy toothbrushes and whether or not he wanted to go back to his buzz cut next summer, Stiles wondered if Mr. Hale liked Marvel as much as he liked DC, and if he had plans to go to the next movie.

 

***

 

Stiles showed back up at Hale headquarters convinced that he was going to be walking right back out with his final paycheck and his Pinesol. Instead, it was what he had grown to expect from a Friday evening. Almost everyone had left on time, only too glad to get out of the office for the weekend, leaving Stiles alone in a big, echoey office building at seven in the evening.

 

He putzed around, happy enough with his music blaring in his ears, eating the guest candy from the secretary’s bowl whenever he passed that way. He justified his sugar thievery by telling himself that the bowl was practically bottomless, and the secretary always offered it to him every time she was working late, so he figured it was fair game. Plus, strawberry Starbursts, so sue him.

 

He was thinking about the midterm paper he needed to write and absently reminding himself that he still needed to pick a theme, and that the history of circumcision and the psychology of user interfaces weren’t a good fit, when he breezed into the corner office. He was juggling a blue bottle of Windex, a roll of paper towels and a squeegee for the glass office door, in addition to the usual microfiber dust cloth, Swiffer and wood polish.

 

Stiles nearly dropped everything when he saw Mr. Hale behind his desk. He stopped like he had run into a wall, and stood there like an idiot, waiting to be yelled at and probably sacked, with a dry cleaning bill shoved in his face for good measure.

 

Instead, Mr. Hale merely glanced up from his screen, his face remaining absolutely impassive as he took in Stiles' presence, returning almost immediately to his computer. Well, alright then. Maybe he wasn’t fired. He stayed motionless, hovering indecisively just inside the door frame, until Mr. Hale made an impatient ‘come in, go ahead’ gesture (or so Stiles assumed that quick hand movement to mean).

 

Stiles got the glass done in record time. Usually he took a bit longer to make sure he got all the streaks, but there was no way he was lingering with all of _that_ typing away behind him. He even took his earbuds out and turned off the music, so that he could hear if the guy stood up or tried talking to him.

 

He shouldn’t have bothered. The man just sat there working the entire time. Stiles dumped the one trash can that had anything in it, though he quickly checked the others - who needed _five_ trash cans in one office? - and decided to leave the dusting till Monday, before scurrying out.

 

Except that on Monday, after a weekend of procrastinating over his assignments and finally doing them all late Sunday evening, Stiles once again found Mr. Hale sitting at his desk when he arrived at seven. He did the rest of the building first, including the bathrooms and the kitchen, until he couldn’t put off the corner office any longer. The man was still there, looking like a really well-conceived ad for a luxury-living magazine, typing away at his laptop and ignoring Stiles' existence.

 

Stiles bit his bottom lip and steeled himself to walk through the door. He felt ridiculous holding his little Swiffer duster, especially after that conversation with Scott on Thursday, and he couldn’t help picturing himself in a frilly lace apron, teasing Mr. Hale’s neck with a feather duster as he sauntered past.

 

Of course, the man chose _that_ moment to look up at him. His nostrils flared, like they had that first day, making him look like an avenging angel, freshly arrived on Earth to damn Stiles for his sins. Stiles went hot and then cold, his body chemistry doing something weird as the man’s gaze held his for a split second. The eyes that met Stiles were both colorful and colorless at the same time, like white light reflecting through a prism. Then they were back on the screen, and Stiles was being ignored again.

 

He dusted fast and poorly, hurrying to get out of the office as quickly as possible and giving the desk a wide berth. When he was over by one of the impressive bookshelves that lined one wall of the room, he noticed a wadded-up piece of paper that had missed one of the trash cans, and he had to lean over a small decorative table to grab it. For a moment, the steady clack of computer keys faltered behind him, before resuming their orderly pace.

 

He also noticed that two of the trashes had paper in them this time around, instead of just the one near the desk. Stiles quickly emptied each and then got out of there as quickly as possible, only daring to breathe once the elevator doors closed behind him.

 

For a man that had not so much as uttered a word meant for Stiles, Mr. Hale was one intimidating son of a bitch. Even so, Stiles couldn’t help but gaze up at the building as he climbed into his Jeep in the lot across the street, and look for the light still burning on the fifth floor. Stiles wondered if Mr. Hale would be there all night, or if he’d leave soon. Shrugging it off, Stiles drove home, his brain already ticking over his next big project for class, Hale Industries getting smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror.


	2. Chapter 2

For several weeks, Derek had been feeling more relaxed than usual, especially at work. He couldn’t understand why. Work was stressful. The building smelled like too many people. It smelled like strangers and copier ink and cleaning supplies. He prefered to work in his apartment, where, even though it didn't exactly smell like _pack,_ at least it smelled like _his_ and _safe._

 

Normally, on an evening like this, Derek would have packed up at 5:30, taken any relevant files with him, and gone back to his apartment to work for another five hours. For the last month, though, he found himself staying later and later, sunk into his office chair like it was actually comfortable. He had been surprised almost every evening to realize that it was already after 6:00 when he glanced at the time. Instead of looking for reasons to leave early, he found himself making excuses to stay late.

 

He wasn't sure what was causing his new, laid-back attitude, but his employees seemed to be appreciating it, actually hazarding to say a few words in passing. Normally, they had a habit of scattering whenever he entered the kitchen or came across a group of them chattering in a hallway, like he was coming to tear their throats out for daring to enjoy themselves for a few moments.

 

Until the past month, Derek had always thought that the avoidance was the instinctive prey reaction to an apex predator. The humans in his employ knew what he was, of course. They’d all had to sign paperwork to the effect that they were willing to work with a SUPERNATURAL and understood the risks involved.

 

He wasn’t the Alpha, and that was a mark in his favor as far as the humans were concerned, which was backwards to Derek’s thinking. Alphas may be stronger, may have the ability to turn a human, but they were also taught to be more in control of themselves, to harness that feral pack energy into order and protection for the pack, which, to a smaller extent, included the humans working for them.

 

Betas didn’t have the same instinct. Yes, they learned control, but they tended to be more willful and violent. Human’s didn’t see it that way. They saw red eyes and their primitive hind brains said _run._

 

Even though he wasn’t the pack’s Alpha, the employees at Hale Industries treated him like he was. It felt wrong, being the one in charge, when his mother should have been calling the shots instead. Or, now that there were only three of them left, it should have been Laura or Peter. But Derek was the only one of the tiny pool of survivors who wanted to save the family business.

 

“Sell it,” Peter had said dismissively. “Take the money, forget about the business. It's more trouble than it's worth.”

 

“It makes me too sad,” Laura had said. “I just _can't_ be a part of it without mom and dad. I keep thinking I'll see mom in the corner office, or that dad will be flying home from a meeting in Europe and that I'll get to see them again-”

 

She had stopped then, biting her lip to keep the emotions in check, and Derek had known that it was up to him to continue what his parents had started. Hale Industries meant something to him in a way that it didn’t to the other two living Hales. He actually believed in the vision of the company, that life-saving compounds could be developed from the class of herbs and medicines currently classified as SUPERNATURAL. He was frustrated that governmental organizations in the US had banned the human use of elements deemed only fit for non-humans, without taking the proper steps to identify which were harmful and which were potentially world-changing.

 

In the Hale pack, they had used several of the elements and spells classified as SUPERNATURAL when treating the human members. As long as the person administering the treatment knew the science and the magic behind the treatment, it was perfectly safe for humans. More than that, it was more effective than most modern medicines when it came to certain human ailments. It was rare, much more rare than humans realized, that werewolves tried to turn their human packmates in order to save their lives. Most werewolves felt that the Bite was only for emergencies.

 

Except, apparently, for Peter, who seemed to think that the Bite was like handing out aspirin.

 

“It’s because he wants to recreate the feeling of pack,” Laura had told Derek once, when she was over for one of her brief visits. “We lost parents and siblings, he lost his _mate and child._ Plus, he's an Alpha. The instinct to create pack is different for him than it is for us.”

 

Derek hadn't answered her then. He hadn't known what to say or even how to feel. Of course he wanted pack. He wanted _his_ pack. His parents and his brothers and sisters and his aunts and uncles and cousins. But they were dead, and all that was left of them was this company and one burnt-out house in the middle of Alpha-less territory.

 

Laura was somewhere in Bosnia, doing a program completely unrelated to being a part of the Hale pack, and Peter was… Well, Peter had his own pet projects. And Derek had the business.

 

At least it had been getting easier lately. He must finally be settling in, getting the feel of things, after nearly a year-and-a-half in the CEO’s chair. It should have been his mother running the business from the large corner office, but now it was him. Him and a crew of mostly human employees, pretending their damnedest that they weren’t in close-confinement with a dangerous SUPERNATURAL every day of the week.

 

His office, the same one that had felt like a prison cell over the past nineteen months, was now finally starting to feel like a safe haven. Maybe he was coming out the other side of the worst of his grieving. Maybe he was finally starting to heal. Whatever it was, it felt amazing. He was breathing, actually _breathing,_ without the ache of loss and panic that was always there, just below his skin.

 

The other day, in fact, he was feeling so at ease that, instead of working through his lunch break like he normally did, he actually stretched out on the couch in the office for five minutes and closed his eyes. He had felt like he was drifting calmly, slipping softly through layers of warm water, the rest of the office noise oddly muted and restful, like hearing sounds underwater.

 

Derek had resurfaced before he could fall asleep, but god, did he want to just drift off and leave all his tension and worry behind. The almost-nap seemed to remind his system how bone-tired he was, his body screaming at him for rest. When was the last time he’d had a full night of sleep? It would have been before his family had… well, _before,_ when he had a pack. But even then things had been tense. The death-threats had been intensifying, the Brotherhood Against Defending SUPERNATURALS stalking his family’s every move, and even though the authorities had taken the threats seriously, they weren’t able to prevent the tragedy.

 

So it must have been over two years now. Two years of constant stress and sleepless nights, eating just enough to get buy, overworking himself in his home gym, trying to exhaust his body enough to sleep. What he ought to have gained in muscle from the extra workouts all went to feed his anxiety, leaving him with a toned body that still looked too thin, like a ballet dancer at the height of the season, stretched out within an inch of snapping apart.

 

This past month at the office, he took to sitting on the couch more as he worked, finding himself idly rubbing a thumb on the leather as he read over the latest testing results from one of the global labs. He’d find himself over by the bookshelves, his fingers tracing over the spines as he looked for the reference he needed. Every once in awhile he caught himself glancing up at the door, like he was expecting someone to walk in. He would just drop his eyes back to his screen and refocus on stock prices and potential charity events and possible sponsors and ignore the feeling crawling around in the back of his brain that he was waiting for someone to walk through the door.

 

* * *

 

It was a Tuesday night when he finally lost track of the time and stayed two hours later than usual. He was feeling especially relaxed and, for whatever reason, he had been more comfortable in the office than at home for the past few weeks, so he had just stayed. He only used his apartment to exercise and to sleep. He could work out either in the mornings or in the evenings. No need to rush home just for a run on the treadmill and an hour of lifting weights. It didn’t help him sleep anyway.

 

So he had buried himself in the new findings from the German team, who were researching a type of SUPERNATURAL-class moss that had once grown in the region's Black Forest and was potentially human-safe. He was writing up notes for the German team lead, when he suddenly became aware of a new heartbeat. It had been beating away out in the rest of the building for some time now, but as focused as Derek had been on the research, the new rhythmic thump of blood had slowly grown in his awareness.

 

He tore his eyes away from the screen and looked out of the long pane of glass in his office door, confused. It wasn’t one of their interns, Derek had learned to identify them already, and besides, it was pretty late for any of them to still be working. He listened more carefully, only hearing the faint beat of two other employees on the far side of the office, whereas the new heartbeat was much closer. Derek saw the flash of a yellow cart being wheeled down the hall outside and realized with chagrin that it was just the cleaning staff. Huffing in annoyance, he returned to his report.

 

The door opened a few minutes later. Derek didn’t look up. He forced himself to keep working. The new heartbeat was racing with shock, presumably from catching sight of Derek sitting there. He was used to that reaction.

 

Derek adopted his usual plan of defence, which was simply to ignore the person. He was three pages deep into his notes and he wasn’t at a good stopping point for small talk anyway. It wasn’t like he would be making a habit of staying after 7:00, so there was no need to try and ingratiate himself with the person who emptied the trash.

 

He got on with his typing and, eventually, the cleaning person started moving again - cautiously - and Derek was almost able to forget that they were there. He was usually hyper-aware of anyone in his space, his _territory,_ but for some reason, he was feeling relaxed, _very_ relaxed, and the intrusion didn’t bother him. In fact, he started to feel bad for not introducing himself when it would have been more natural to do so. Now it would be awkward, but he could always blame his bad manners on work.

 

Derek blinked a few times, trying to concentrate on the email he was writing. When had he stopped typing? He continued the half-finished thought, hit Enter for a new paragraph, and started on his next point which was… what was it again? It had been so clear a moment ago. He looked back up at the paragraph before. Oh, right, he had been about to explain what sort of reports he needed sent to the FDA and…

 

That was really distracting. That scent. What product was the cleaning person - young man, he realized, glancing up and seeing a tall, lanky body - using that smelled so good?

 

Strange, now that he thought about it, he couldn’t catch the man’s scent. He hadn’t really noticed until now. The strong smell of the products he was using to dust must be obscuring his natural scent. No matter. It wasn’t important. What he needed to do was focus on getting this email sent so he could head home and get some dinner. He was feeling surprisingly hungry all of a sudden.

 

Derek found his shoulders unwinding from their tense hunch, the headache that nearly always plagued him nowadays melting away slowly. He sighed softly to himself, loosening up, breathing deeper. God, that smell was fantastic. He should ask the kid what he was using and then buy some for his apartment. It was… it was like… Derek inhaled trying to pinpoint it.

 

It was _evasive,_ as if he was just too far away to get a clear breath of the scent, to determine what it was. It didn’t smell like spice, not exactly… he breathed in again. It wasn’t really like herbs, or flowers, or citrus…

 

The scent was infuriating in its vagueness. Derek found himself getting irrationally frantic about it, wanting to clearly smell what it was, to give it a name. As a natural born wolf, he was used to identifying everyone and everything by scent, and not having a name to put to the smell - nearly a taste - in the air had him agitated.

 

Derek opened his mouth a bit, breathing in, letting the air stream over his tongue, trying to get a clearer hit of scent, trying desperately to identify what it was. He realized with the sort of half-conscious haziness of a dream that he was aroused, leaning forward in his chair, the edge of the desk digging into the bottom of his ribs.

 

What was it? What was that scent? He would go mad if he couldn’t identify it, if he couldn’t get closer to it. He needed to taste it, to wrap up in it… to cover himself with it right the fuck now or he was going to shift and go on a rampage-

 

Derek jolted back in his chair, staring up at the young man who was standing by his desk, frozen, looking like he was trying to decide if he should run out of the office screaming. The man’s eyes were wide, amber-colored, staring at Derek in confusion, while his soft mouth hung open in shock, his teeth hidden, his lips outlining a cupid’s bow of shadow.

 

The scent, that infuriatingly perfect scent, was coming off the man like heat, radiating from him like sunlight.

 

Fuck. Fuckity-fuck fuck.

 

Derek did the only thing he could think of and looked back at his computer screen, heart hammering and breathing labored, huffing up the boy’s scent against his will, as though he’d lost all control over his body. He was still hard, pressed tight in the confines of his slacks, his instincts telling him to claim, even while his mind was horrified and embarrassed beyond belief that this had happened, that this was his reaction.

 

The man finally left, backing away slowly, until he tripped out of the door, but even then Derek breathed in shallow little gasps, wanting and dreading the taste of the air on his tongue. He could overtake him, of course. If he wanted him, he could catch up with him easily. And then what?

 

No. He was no uncontrolled monster, dammit. He was a Hale. He had been taught self control and a respect for all beings, SUPERNATURAL or not.

 

But damn. He _ached._

 

Derek managed to keep control over his instincts long enough to get home and get his apartment door closed, before getting a hand on himself. He was literally in the entryway, leaning against the closed door, his fly open and the elastic band of his underwear pushing up under his balls, one hand racing over his weeping cock while he hid his eyes in the crook of his other arm, head back, elongating teeth clenched tight.

 

Derek felt the swelling at the base of his cock, hard and hot as his fist stripped over it again and again. He was popping his knot.

 

He had never knotted without a partner before.

 

“Oh god. Oh god. Oh… g… god!” He came, every muscle in his body clenching tight, his stomach aching with the strain. He arched over himself slightly, his shoulders pulling away from the stabilizing surface of the door as he dropped the arm that had been covering his eyes, wrapping both shaking hands around his knot. He squeezed instinctively, the tennis ball-sized lump aching at the lack of pressure. As his hands closed convulsively around his flesh, he rotated them slightly, as though wringing out the insane amount of come that was pulsing out of him onto the tile floor.

 

“Oh god! Fuck!” His hips started moving on their own, little thrusts into his tight grip, the knot so hot in his hands it felt feverish. “Uh, uh, uhhh!” He couldn’t stop, couldn’t focus on anything but the resurging orgasm, dropping off for a few seconds only to crest again, far past the point when he should have been coming dry, and yet he was still coming, dripping long strands from his tip. He could feel as gravity took the fat globs, the wet slide pulling at the slit, making him shiver, only to come again a few seconds later.

 

Finally, _finally_ he was able to slide down to the floor, thighs trembling, barely managing to avoid the slippery mess he’d made, legs splayed around the come-splattered tiles. He leaned heavily on one arm, his sticky hand splayed over the floor, the other still gripping his knot, his thumb making small, unconscious circles over the tight flesh. He would have let out a whimper but he was too spent to even do that, panting through his, now human, teeth.

 

That had been… that had _never_ happened before, Not like that. He had knotted a few times with partners, but he realized now, looking down at the swollen flesh in his hand, that he had never _fully_ popped a knot before. At the time, he had thought that the experience was good, but overrated. His knot had been small enough to slip back out of his partners after just a few minutes. He had supposed that stories of being locked together for hours, fucking and coming over and over, were just fantasy. He would have laughed at how wrong he was, but every muscle in his diaphragm hurt from clenching.

 

Cleaning up, after he finally got his muscle strength back, didn’t make his top ten Fun Things to do After Work list, but at least all evidence of his unorthodox activities were erased to anyone without a werewolf-sharp sense of smell. He showered thoroughly, getting rid of every trace of scent he’d picked up from his office. It helped his return to sanity.

 

That had been, hands down, the best orgasm of his entire life. It could never happen again.

 

* * *

 

After barely making it to the bathroom at work the following morning, only to stripe the toilet, floor and wall with come, Derek cleaned up with tissues and then promptly let the office manager know that he was working from home. He sped back to his apartment for another shower. This was impossible. The cleaning guy wasn’t even _there._ But now that Derek had scented him up close and knew what that relaxing, addictive feeling he got from being in his office actually was, he couldn’t stop seeing the man in his mind’s eye every time he smelled it.

 

He would have to fire him. There was no way he could do this unless he worked from home exclusively, but that was just asking for trouble, on both a personal and a professional level. First off, the employees needed to see him there, needed to know he took the business seriously. Plus, that way he could monitor everything first-hand and wouldn’t have to rely solely on reports.

 

The bigger reason, though he was loathe to admit it, was that it would not be healthy for him emotionally or mentally. He was already a step away from withdrawing from the world completely. He yearned for it often: absolute solitude. He wanted the familiar scent of his apartment, the well-known landscape outside the window. A call from Laura or Peter, the only voices he heard beyond the conversations he could pick up (and ignored) from the surrounding apartments.

 

He had thought this all through before, after his family had been killed. He had looked up which places around town delivered groceries, which laundry services used unscented detergent and offered pick-up and drop-off. He even looked into a courier service between himself and the office to transport paper files and wet signatures.

 

In the end, he had fought to stay in the world. It had been hard. It was still hard. But it was a fight he was so far winning, though it was constant and ongoing. It was made harder by not having any new relationships, friendly or romantic, to give him incentive to leave his apartment. It was really just work keeping him sane at this point. Sure, he usually worked 8 to 5:30, not a second later in the office, but that was the deal he had made with himself. He could be a recluse after 5:30, but until then, he had to at least pretend that he was a real, functioning person that could leave his apartment and exist in the outside world. Even without his pack.

 

He couldn’t give up.

 

He would _have_ to fire the cleaning guy so that he could sit in his office without popping a knot and humping the leather furniture (which for some reason seemed to retain the boy’s scent the clearest, either because it was a natural material, or because the kid had sat on them, Derek had no idea).

 

His goal in looking up the guy’s info in the office directory was to have a name to go with the person that he was sacking for no other reason than that he smelled too good. Derek clenched his eyes shut once he’d read the name. Stiles Stilinski. Well, now he knew his name. He could… His fingers hovered over the mouse, the cursor blinking in Chrome’s search bar. No. He wouldn’t do that. He just needed to tell the HR lady that Stiles _(Stiles, Stiles, his name is Stiles)_ had to be let go.

 

“Stiles Stilinski” was typed into the search bar and the first page of results loaded before Derek even realized his fingers had moved. Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, even Pinterest, all wanted to know if he’d like to view their profiles for “Stiles Stilinski.” Derek sighed, disgusted with himself, and clicked the first link.

 

After less than five minutes on his Facebook page, Derek knew he couldn’t fire Stiles. The kid was putting himself through college. His dad was a retired sheriff, wounded in the line of duty.

 

Goddammit.

 

Derek stared numbly for another moment, before clicking on the file marked Photos.

 

* * *

 

He tried to stay away from the office. The problem was, he wasn’t sleeping. At all. Not one second of one minute of the entire night. For three days. When he finally went back to the office, it was 1:37 a.m. and it was just to collapse on the couch and sleep. His head hit the leather and he was out.

 

Thank god he woke up before anyone got to the office the next morning, but it was a close thing. He was ridiculously grateful for his enhanced hearing as he hid in the bathroom, waiting for one of the early bird project managers to get safely in the kitchen and start brewing coffee before he could sneak out.

 

He got home, soaked in the scent of leather and Stiles, and crashed onto his mattress, trying to ignore the fact that he was introducing the infuriating scent into his bed. He slept for hours, dead to the world.

 

If he had been relieved before that Stiles’ scent hadn’t gotten him riled up when he had collapsed in his office, he was rudely awakened at three that afternoon, rutting mindlessly against the mattress, seconds away from coming. He groaned, both from pleasure and from frustration. How was he going to function like this? He turned his head into his pillow, getting a hit of that scent, an image of Stiles - one from his Facebook profile of him with his head tipped back, laughing, throat bare - flashing in his mind, and that was it. He lay on his stomach, his trapped cock jumping as he came with his head buried in his pillow. He wanted to cry with frustration and also with how amazing it felt to be inhaling Stiles’ scent, even as faint and muddied as it was, as he pulsed wetly into the sheets, the hot liquid pooling under his belly.

 

He was right on the edge of popping his knot. He clenched his teeth, trying to reign it in, to leave his mind blank, creep back from the edge. He held his breath, trying not to take in any more of that scent, holding perfectly still. He could manage this, he could hold back, he could-

 

With a groan that was a half sob, Derek breathed in, the divine scent gripping his brain. He gave a small thrust into the warm, wet spot beneath him and that’s all it took. His knot swelled, his balls grew heavy and tight, and then he was coming again and again, screaming wordlessly into his pillow, wishing it would stop. Wishing it would go on forever.

 

“Stiles!” This was why he should never have looked up his name. “Stiles! Uh, ah! Oh god god god…” It turned out that lying on his stomach, crushing his knot into the slippery sheets with his weight, rutting in little half-thrusts, was an excellent way to keep coming, over and over, until he was shaking and begging it to stop, his body not interested in listening to him at all. It was too busy pursuing the next climax, the next hot rush into the sheets, his belly and thighs a slippery mess.

 

“Oh fuck,” he moaned helplessly, hysterically, as he gathered the pillow under his chest, mimicking a body beneath him, biting his own arm until he could taste blood.

 

What was he going to do? What the fuck was he going to do?

 

* * *

 

In hindsight, he should have locked his office door when he left at night and instructed the HR lady to ask Stiles not to worry about cleaning it.

 

But then, how would he have been able to sleep?

 

As it turned out, his perverse werewolf DNA had a switch that Stiles had managed to trip just by existing, that caused Derek to lie awake at night, missing his scent like he was missing a limb.

 

It was little over a week before he was sleeping on the leather sofa in his office. Sure, he’d get up early and go to his apartment for food, a shower, a workout, and a change of clothes, but otherwise, he spent all his time at his desk or on the couch.

 

He found that, as long as he was immersed in the scent, faded and mixed with other scents in the office, he could keep his arousal under control, at least until he was in his shower at home. Sure, he had a few awkward moments, but for the most part, it had evened out, and was more like it had been those first few weeks when he was still blessedly unaware of the cause of his new relaxed state. As long as he didn’t think about Stiles, didn’t conjure up his image or go looking through his social media posts, he was able to recapture that feeling of calm and comfort.

 

Inevitably, Stiles would come stumbling into his office to clean, and the sweet warmth of his muted scent would spike out of control, becoming a searing heat, overwhelming all his keen senses. He would wait it out, breathing shallowly, holding his breath completely when Stiles was close. He kept his hands moving, typing as fast as he could, trying to concentrate, though he knew that he’d have to delete everything he wrote while Stiles was in his space.

 

Every time he won over the urge to take, claim, bite, fuck, he counted it a victory. He also cursed himself. He was playing a dangerous game. What if one day he couldn’t control it? Why was he doing this? He should leave when Stiles was here. He should lock his office door. He should get nose plugs.

 

But having Stiles in his life, however remotely, kept him going. It made him feel alive for the first time in two years. He _felt_ something again. Yes, it was overwhelming and embarrassing and it _hurt,_ but at least he knew that he was alive, as though he hadn’t been certain that he was still breathing until Stiles had started working for the company.

 

So he kept playing with fire, kept staying in the office, door unlocked, waiting for the tell-tale sound of the elevator doors opening at 7:00, the beat of a now familiar heartbeat. He argued with himself, even while he intentionally missed the trash after crumpling up a note, or dropped a few pieces of paper in the various bins around the office. He instinctively wanted more of Stiles’ scent in his- well, what was quickly becoming more of a den than an office. The more things Stiles touched, the longer he stayed, the better Derek slept, his wolf rumbling happily at the base of his brain.

 

It was fine, it was alright. He could do this. Sure, it was a tightrope walk, but, he could handle it. Just. Barely. If he ignored the warning bells going off like mad in the rational side of his brain, if he ignored the fact that it was getting harder not to pop a knot while Stiles was still in the room, ignored how perverted and creepy it was to be lusting after the guy that cleaned his office, staring at him, when his back was turned, his eyes wandering all over his body…

 

It was fine.

 

It was fine.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Long sigh. 
> 
> I literally wrote half of this on my phone at work while pretending to do Excel sheets. I also managed to leave my phone sitting on the counter in the office bathroom, and when I came back to get it, there was a screen up I have never used and it was in a different spot. I like to think that some poor person in the office is now a Sterek fan thanks to me being an airhead and leaving my phone unlocked in random places. Well, they are more likely to have been traumatized, but at least it wasn't the knotting part from chapter two, ammirite? Bathroom lady, if you ever read this, I am so so sorry.

 

 

Stiles stood in front of the bathroom mirror, holding Iron Man in one hand, cinnamon flavored toothpaste _(‘You’re gross Stiles,’ ‘Shut up Scott! Red toothpaste rules!’)_ already spread on the alarmingly yellow bristles, posed to polish his pearly whites, his eyes dropping again to the emblem on his T-shirt. He traced the Bat symbol with one finger while scrubbing his teeth with his other hand. Huh, that could be some sort of sobriety test or something. It was harder than it looked.

 

He figured that he would see Grumpy Bear again tonight at his cleaning job, and his Batman shirt had pretty much been pleading with him from the bottom of the drawer. If Mr. Hale just _happened_ to have his Robin mug, and Stiles just _happened_ to be like, Hey, DC, amirite? And then they maybe just sorta had like, a twenty second conversation about Christian Bale vs Ben Affleck, then maybe things wouldn’t be so freaking weird between them.

 

Stiles would like to feel comfortable saying ‘Hello Mr. Hale,’ without worrying that the man would jump out of his chair and barrel roll for safety. He sighed, rinsing off Iron Man and sticking him back in the medicine cabinet, before grabbing his deodorant and stretching his shirt to the side to apply it. It was unscented, and honestly, Stiles missed his other stuff, the smelly, woodsy, manly stuff, but Scott claimed that it gave him a headache.

 

Scott had been claiming that a lot lately. Ever since officially joining that stupid frat last week, Stiles had barely seen him, and when he had, he just sat stiffly on the couch, not making eye contact, complaining that Stiles’ deodorant smelled too strong, and so did his aftershave. And could he please stop wearing cologne?

 

Stiles had worried that it was his asthma flaring up, but Scott had said, no, it was just a headache, and for god’s sake, please go take a shower. So, the next time Stiles went to the store, he bought unscented versions of his products - deodorant, shampoo, shaving cream - because he was basically the best friend on the planet. And what did Scott do? Immediately ditched him to hang with his new friends. Seriously, Scott could be the worst.

 

Wheeling the ridiculous cart around at Hale Industries, Stiles did his best to avoid Mr. Finstock, knowing that he could get hung up being talked at forever if that crazy man caught him. So, he stealth-attacked the trash and dusting, until he saw Finstock bumble his way out of his cubicle and down the hallway to the front door. Stiles huffed a breath of relief. Thank god he had avoided yet another conversation about about lining his walls with newspapers, or whatever his new thing was. Stiles turned to head back down the hall. He wasn’t in the mood for Finstock to-

 

Stiles screamed. He couldn't help it. It leapt out. Because, standing right behind him, was Mr. Hale: eyes wide, nostrils flared. He hadn’t heard the man _at all._ How had he snuck up on him like that? _Why_ had he snuck up on him like that?

 

In fact, now that he was face to face with him, Mr. Hale looked… strange. Stiles blinked. They were really close. Really really way too close. He was, wow, he was a good looking man.  Stiles cleared his throat, opening his mouth to speak, but before he could figure out anything to say, Mr. Hale was wrapping his arms around himself and leaning against the wall. He looked like he was going to pass out.

 

“Woah there,” Stiles said, reaching out to steady him, only to have the man twist away from his fingers before he could touch him. “Okay,” Stiles said, taken aback. “Okay, um, are you alright? Do you need anything? Are you trying to get the bathroom or something? Are you about to barf, dude?”

 

Mr. Hale shook his dark-haired head, squeezing his eyes shut. When he opened them again, he was staring at Stiles’ T-shirt. Stiles looked down too.

 

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles said, clearing his throat. “DC, right? Good stuff.”

 

Mr. Hale didn't exactly seem ready to agree with him. His eyes - how did real eyes manage to look photoshopped? - were wide, and he seriously looked like he was a second away from keeling over. Stiles held out his hands, reaching slowly for Mr. Hale’s shoulder where it was all curled up tight into his body, but when the man flinched as though in pain, he stopped, frozen, not knowing what to do.

 

Was the guy even breathing? Stiles looked at him closely. Wow, those were some lips. Okay, yeah, not what to focus on. Breathing- looking for signs of it.

 

“Dude, are you breathing?” he asked, starting to panic. Oh god, the richest man in America was going to drop dead at his feet and Stiles had no idea what to do. “Come on, breathe for me, man,” Stiles said, getting in Mr. Hale’s face and gesturing wildly. If he passed out, Stiles wasn’t sure if he remembered how to do mouth to mouth, or the chest compression thing. He should have paid more attention in class. His ADHD was literally about to be the death of someone.

 

Stiles tried to calm down and not freak out, but Mr. Hale was not making it easy on him. The guy’s arms were wrapped like iron bars around his chest, as though he was holding himself together through sheer willpower. Stiles watched as he started to shake.

 

“Are you epileptic? Is this a seizure?” Stiles asked. Mr. Hale managed to shake his head. “Okay, uh, I'm going to call someone, alright? 911. An ambulance. Before you like, pass out.” Mr. Hale shook his head violently at that.

 

Slowly, the dark-haired man straightened up, clenching his jaw, regaining his composure bit by bit. It was like watching a slow, painful, magic trick. Mr. Hale tugged his tie straight, looking over Stiles’ head, ignoring him. Just before he walked off down the hallway, he gritted out a rough, “I'm fine. Sorry about that.”

 

Stiles watched him go in disbelief. Mr. Hale stepped into his office, and Stiles could hear the click of the door handle as it was locked from the inside.

 

Okay. That happened.

 

Stiles practically tiptoed past Mr. Hale’s office the rest of the evening, willing the yellow cleaning cart not to squeak. He risked a glance through the glass panel in the door just before he left. Mr. Hale was nowhere to be seen, though the lights were on and his laptop was still open on his desk.

 

Later, at home, Stiles stripped off his Batman T-shirt, looking at it as though it had betrayed him. He crashed in bed, sighing, forcing his thoughts to run over his next essay. Whatever was going on with Mr. Hale, it was none of his business.

 

 

* * *

 

 

As strange as the boss of Hale Industries was acting, it was nothing in comparison to Scott. Over the next day and a half, Stiles was ready to rip his hair out in frustration. When Scott was in their apartment, he scowled at Stiles every time he so much moved, acting like he was banging pots and pans right next to his ear. His entire body language had changed. He looked angry all of the time, didn’t want to play video games, didn’t want to go out for food, didn’t want to listen to Stiles stories about class… Nothing.

 

When Scott growled, actually growled, at him for using the coffee grinder to make his long-anticipated, fancy, frou-frou weekend coffee, Stiles had had enough. Plunking down across the table from Scott, who was working his way through an entire plate of bacon by himself, Stiles leaned in on his elbows and looked him dead in the eye.

 

“It’s drugs, isn’t it?” he said, stealing a piece of bacon while Scott made a confused face. “That group of frat thugs has you on steroids or something, don’t they?” Scott’s mouth fell open in shock. “Don’t bother lying to me, man,” Stiles continued, helping himself to more bacon. “I saw you angry-lifting weights in your room the other day, and buddy, not to dis the old you, but you could never lift that much with your skinny monkey arms.”

 

Scott looked angry, hurt, and guilty, all in quick succession. “It’s not like that-”

 

“Really, Scott, really?” Stiles spread his greasy fingers wide and glared at his friend. “Cause I would say it’s _exactly_ like that. Look at you, man, you’re so not yourself. And don’t give me that bullshit about being tired cause of school or whatever. And what’s with the smell thing?”

 

“Stiles-”

 

“I mean, come on. My cologne I could understand, but my shaving cream? Seriously?”

 

“Stiles-”

 

“And what’s with the holier-than-thou attitude I’ve been getting from you lately? Now that you have friends that are cooler than me-”

 

_“Stiles-”_

 

“-and you think you can just drop me like a sack of old potatoes? After all we’ve been through together-”

 

_“Stiles!”_

 

“-I think that I deserve to be treated better than- oh Jeezus, you're a werewolf.”

 

Scott, his eyes glowing gold, blinked a few times in quick succession before they faded back to brown. “That’s what I’ve been trying to-”

 

“Holy shit, you’re a _werewolf!”_

 

“Yeah, I mean, that’s what I wanted to tell you, I-”

 

“That frat is a pack of frickin wolves and you’ve joined and, omg! Can you turn into a full-shift wolf?” Stiles stared at his best friend, his emotions hovering between delighted and pissed. Delighted because, woah, werewolves! Mad as fuck because Scott should have _told_ him. Why didn’t he tell him? They were best friends. They told each other everything. But maybe, just maybe, Scott could turn into a wolf, and that needed to be explored first before tender feelings got in the way of just how incredible this was.

 

“I haven’t yet but-”

 

“Oh man, that would be so awesome!” Stiles was up, practically dancing around the room in excitement. “I have a SUPERNATURAL for a best friend! A Spark, Unearthly, Paranormal, Ethereal, Reanimated, Nonhuman, Angelic, Tentacled, Undead, Reptilian, Aquatic, and/or Lycanthrope as a _best friend._ You are definitely the last one, though. This is so, so cool! Can you come to my classes and intimdate my professors for me? I have one in particular in mind…”

 

“So, you’re okay with this?” Scott asked, his face looking young and worried. Stiles stopped flailing around, imagining Professor Haris falling out of his chair in shock at seeing Scott’s glowing eyes staring at him from the back of the classroom, and sat back down across from Scott.

 

“I mean, yeah, if _you’re_ okay with this…” Stiles said, sobering and putting on his ‘dealing with emotional and/or adult stuff’ face. This was serious. This was Scott’s _life._ It wasn’t like somebody could take the Bite back once it was given. Scott’s whole world had changed in just a few short days. As giddy as Stiles was about all the possibilities, he also had to remember how weird and not-himself Scott had been the past week.

 

“Well yeah, I’m going to really like it, I think, once I can get a handle on the extra senses. The others have been able to. It's not as easy for us with the Bite as it is for the natural-born wolves, but I’m learning. And, dude, being able to breathe without wheezing and actually _run_ without almost dying is so great! I mean, except that now I can smell, like, _everything.”_

 

“Oh, gross! I don't even want to know. Yes I do. But first-” Stiles punched him in the shoulder and then whimpered when it hurt his hand.

 

“Dude, what was that for?”

 

“Like it even hurt!”

 

“Not _me,_ apparently.”

 

“Shut up! Fragile human here. Look, I'm pretty pissed that you didn't tell me,” Stiles said, hoping that he was managing to convey the hurt-dampered-with-raw-affection tone he was going for.  He felt satisfied with how instantly abashed Scott managed to look.

 

“I know,” he said sheepishly. “But I wasn't allowed to tell anyone. Like, on pain of death.” Stiles raised an eyebrow. “Okay, maybe not death. But it would have made Peter really unhappy with me, and I couldn't risk that, being a new Beta and all.”

 

“Peter? Wait, is he, like, your Alpha?”

 

Scott nodded. “Yeah.”

 

“I have _so much_ research to do on werewolves. To think of all the time I've wasted, looking up ghosts and merpeople and whatnot, and you go and get yourself the Bite. The only thing I know about werewolves is from that one section in health ed. None of the kids were werewolves, so they skipped most of the chapter.”

 

“We're kinda rare,” Scott said, loftily, preening a bit.

 

“You are not allowed to get all superior on me here, wolf boy.”

 

Scott made an affronted grunt.

 

Stiles spent the next half an hour getting Scott to shift, back and forth, back and forth, until he claimed that he was exhausted and needed to stop for awhile. Then Stiles spent the half an hour after that asking a bunch of questions about werewolves. Once he had picked Scott’s brain clean about the full moon, claws, fangs, hairy sideburns, and eating woodland creatures, Scott held up his hands.

 

“As much as I would love to sit here and answer all your nosy questions-”

 

“You owe me for hiding this from me!”

 

“-I am going to be late for my pack meeting.”

 

Stiles’ face fell at that. “Oh,” he said. He didn't want to be an asshole about this. It was great that Scott didn’t have asthma anymore, and that he actually belonged to an elite group the way he'd always wanted. Stiles had supported him before, with lacrosse and all the other stuff Scott wanted to do to fit in, to belong, to be looked up to. Stiles could be supportive of this too. Though, even with the little he knew about werewolves, he knew that pack was the center of their lives. Scott hadn’t just joined a frat or a club or a team. He'd joined a family. A family without Stiles in it.

 

Scott must have read the look on his face, because he softened. “Hey,” he said, looping a decidedly less scrawny arm around Stiles’ shoulders. “You’re pack too, you know. I mean, the others bring humans sometimes. They're pack.” As though it was already decided, Scott started tugging him toward the door.

 

“Woah, wait.” Stiles dug his heels in. Scott, not yet used to his new strength, nearly pulled him off his feet.

 

“Sorry. No, listen,” he said as Stiles started to pull away from the door. “Now that you know about me getting the Bite, you'll have to meet the pack anyway. So you should just come with me tonight. Get it over with”

 

“But-”

 

“It'll be fine. I'm sure Peter and the rest of the pack will want to meet you.”

 

“Oh, wait, hold up,” Stiles said, suddenly horrified. “Is Jackson a part of your pack?” He hoped that the sheer horror in his voice conveyed how he felt about that idea. At Scott’s nervous look, Stiles nearly wailed with grief. “You’re werewolf brothers with _Jackson?_ Jackson, and not me? I want a divorce. We’re breaking up.”

 

“Knock it off, bro,” Scott said, giving him a manly side-hug. “You are my brother, not that A-hole. Now come on!” Scott tugged on him again, then stopped, his head bending close to Stiles’ shirt. His nose wrinkled up. “You need to change.”

 

Apparently, Scott wasn’t talking about his shirt being dirty, but rather, too clean. Not wolfy or Scottish enough. But when Stiles put up a fight because he liked the shirt he was wearing, the only way to solve the problem was to let Scott pop it on for a few minutes and do twenty jumping jacks, before taking it off and handing it back.

 

Piled safely in the car, weirdly giddy from the thought of meeting so many SUPERNATURALS all in one place, Stiles dove into some more questions. “Okay, so, what’s the shirt thing for? Scenting? Some sort of pack thing? Like, they are more likely to accept me if I smell like you?”

 

Scott looked nervous. “Well, yeah. Definitely some of that…”

 

“And?”

 

“And, it’s sort of a way to mark you as untouchable? Like, mine, sorta? Not in that way, dude!” he exclaimed as Stiles turned a horrified look in his direction. “Just like, if anyone is… interested… in uh, getting to know you better or something, they will understand that they have to go through me and not, uh, just... pounce.”

 

“Scott, what aren’t you telling me?”

 

“Well, okay, look. I didn’t think of this until after I invited you, and then I realized that you smelled too much like you. Just you. And that means something different to wolves, apparently. I already sorta feel that way about things and people and stuff. But, ah, you may be a little bit, just a little bit, mind you, Peter’s type.”

 

Stiles just looked at Scott. “His type?”

 

Scott gave a helpless shrug. “Sorta?” He tried to soften this with a smirky smile. It wasn’t working. Stiles knew him too well.

 

“And by his type, you mean…” Stiles slowly slid two of his fingers in and out of a circle he was making with his other hand.

 

“Uh,” Scott turned red.

 

“And just how old is this Alpha Peter of yours?” Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. If he was a younger guy - especially if he was cute - Stiles might enjoy a little flirting, even if it didn’t go anywhere.

 

“Forty? Forty-five? I dunno,” Scott mumbled, trying his best to hide behind the steering wheel.

 

Stiles’ mouth dropped open. “Dude! You are _not_ to leave me alone with him, you understand?”

 

“I wouldn’t anyway. Don’t worry.”

 

“Oh yeah, very reassuring. Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

Scott did really well at first. Stiles appreciated him trying. But the apartment they ended up in was large, and there were a lot of people milling around, giving Scott all sorts of attention for being the baby of the group, and he sort of forgot that he was supposed to be looking after his puny little human friend.

 

Stiles, for his part, was looking for anyone in the group that didn’t appear to be a SUPERNATURAL. Scott had said that others brought human friends. Well, he had yet to see one. The one guy that Stiles thought might be a fragile mortal like himself, actually leaned forward and _inhaled_ when Stiles tried to introduce himself.

 

“You’re Scott’s friend,” the guy said, and Stiles could only nod. “Are you wearing his shirt?” he asked, like that was normal. Maybe it was. Who was Stiles to judge? He just wanted to fit in with the natives long enough to make it back out the door alive.

 

“Uh,” Stiles said, his eyes dropping to the Joker shirt he had on under his favorite flannel. “Nope, all mine. Though Scott, uh, tried it on before we left.”

 

The other guy nodded sagely. “I see, I see. Well, I’m Isaac, by the way.”

 

“Stiles.”

 

“It’s nice to meet you. We don’t get a lot of non-NATs here,” Isaac explained, slowly moving his long body closer to Stiles, leaning against the counter so he wasn’t looming so much. The guy was _tall._

 

“Oh yeah?” He was sweating. Why was he sweating? “Scott said that people bring their human friends to the pack meetings sometimes… should I not be here?” Stiles was starting to get paranoid. There were a lot of eyes on him right now, and Scott seemed to be getting farther and farther away, as if they were purposefully being separated. In fact, Isaac was sort of slowly backing Stiles into the corner of the kitchen. True, it wasn’t very threatening, and he wasn’t obviously trying to move him, but somehow they’d ended up hidden by the industrial-sized fridge.

 

“Oh, no. Your being here is fine. In fact, I know Peter wanted to specifically meet you.”

 

“He, uh, he did?”

 

“Yeah. Said something about smelling you on Scott’s clothes before and thinking you might be interesting.”

 

“Oh, uh…”

 

Isaac gave a little smirk, leaning in a bit, his nostrils flaring. Just for a moment, Stiles saw a different face in his mind, clear eyes wide, looking up at Stiles from behind a desk, shocked and nervous. Then Isaac swam into focus again, much closer this time, the tip of his nose nearly touching Stiles’ ear lobe. The tall man gave a small hum that was nearly a growl.

 

“I can see why Peter wanted to meet you,” Isaac said, his voice coming out in a slight lisp, deeper than before, and Stiles caught a glint of a fang out of the corner of his eye. Before Isaac could follow through with whatever impulse had taken a hold him, a hand was on the boy’s shoulder, pulling him gently away. Isaac’s large frame moved to reveal a much smaller man.

 

“I certainly did want to meet him,” the newcomer said, addressing Isaac. He was a good looking man, though closer to Stiles’ dad’s age than made him comfortable. He was probably in his forties and- oh. Oh _shit._

 

“Peter?” Stiles squeaked out. God dammit, where was Scott?

 

“Hello, Stiles,” the man said, maneuvering Stiles by his elbow and steering him down the hallway. His touch was light but somehow Stiles failed to get his arm away from him and had no choice but to follow along.  “Welcome to my humble home. Let me escort you to the library where we can have a private conversation.”

 

Stiles nearly tripped over his own feet. “You have a library? In an _apartment?”_ Pretentious much?

 

Peter hummed, cocking his head to the side and lifting his eyebrows in what seemed to be a very practiced gesture. “More of a study really. But I do own quite a few books. So the pack has dubbed it the library.” He stopped in front of a door, holding it open for Stiles. “Please,” he said waving a hand for Stiles to go first.

 

Huh. There _were_ a lot of books. Stiles’ eyes instinctively darted toward what was obviously the magic section in the corner. The entire bookcase that housed the old tomes seemed to be pulsing with energy, flickering in the corners of Stiles’ vision, like heat lightning seen from a distance. His fingers tingled and his mouth practically watered. Peter watched him with a smirk.

 

“Ah, yes,” he said, looking back and forth between Stiles and the books he was greedily devouring with his eyes. “I thought you might be a bit of a Spark. It’s in your scent, you know. I caught a trace of it on Scott, and for a moment, I thought he might possess some of the Gift. However, I love him as he is, a normal, unremarkable young man.”

 

“Scott is fucking incredible,” Stiles heard his voice saying, even if he was still gazing hungrily at the books. Even on autopilot, his brain still defended his best friend. Reason number three thousand that Stiles was an amazing bro.

 

Peter laughed, his eyes crinkling up, and for just a second Stiles forgot to be wary of him. Big mistake. The next thing he knew he was crowded up against the desk with Peter’s face mere inches from his neck, inhaling deeply. “Hmm,” he said, his head tilting back and his eyes meeting Stiles like someone who was several drinks into the evening. “Yes, I can definitely smell it. You belong here.”

 

“Wha- what do you mean?” Stiles desperately looked around. Peter had closed the door behind them. He could make a break for it, but he doubted he could get the door open before Peter caught him. Then there was the fact that running from an Alpha werewolf was probably one of the dumbest things he could do.

 

“With your latent power, the Bite would make you nearly unstoppable.” To Stiles’ horror, he saw Peter’s teeth lengthening as the werewolf gently took ahold of Stiles’ hand, holding his slim wrist dangerously close to his mouth. He breathed in again, a look on his face like he was moments away from licking or biting the thin skin of Stiles’ arm.

 

“Let me think about it!” Stiles managed to blurt out. Peter’s eyes came into focus again, pulling back from the edge where the wolf lurked, his expression turning human once more.

 

“Of course,” he said, dropping Stiles’ hand and grinning at him. “Think it over. Talk to your buddy, Scott. I would be honored to have you as a member of my pack. I can promise you a special place…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “A discussion for another time, I think. First, please enjoy the other’s company. I have a few last-minute arrangements to make before the meeting begins.”

 

With that, he ushered Stiles back outside the library, ignoring the longing look Stiles sent the magic books, and shut the door firmly behind them. He directed Stiles back towards the kitchen and left him there with a nod and a wink.

 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” Scott whimpered at him as soon as Peter was out of sight, clambering up to his side like a kicked puppy. “It’s just that they were all talking to me about Pack stuff, and before I even knew what was happening, I was in the livingroom and you weren’t anywhere, and…”

 

But Stiles wasn’t paying attention to a word his horrible best friend was saying. Because, over Scott’s apologetic shoulder, eyes wide and mouth slack with shock, was none other than Mr. Hale.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get to hear from Derek again. :D 
> 
> This has been so much fun to write! I am BLOWN AWAY by the amount of positive feedback. Thank you guys SO MUCH!!!!

He could smell him, of course, before the front door even opened.

 

However, Stiles’ scent, muddled up with a bunch of other fragrances, muddied with the sweat and pheromones both humans and NATs, was confusing and disorienting to both Derek and his wolf. It was hard to tell if the scent was coming from Stiles himself, or something or someone that Stiles had touched.

 

Scott, the new Beta, was one of the many reasons Derek had arrived late to Peter’s apartment for the pack meeting. Scott smelled alarmingly of Stiles. All the time. They lived together. Derek knew that much from ‘the Facebook incident.’ Scott had been in several of Stiles’ pictures, going all the way back to when he had first created his profile. Derek’s eyes had instinctively flicked over to Stiles’ relationship status, again, as he scrolled through the pictures, seeing Stiles’ arm around the other boy, both smiling, laughing, roughhousing. Every time he looked, though, the status reassuringly said ‘single,’ and Derek had cringed at himself.

 

Then, when Derek had met Peter’s new Beta the week before, he scented Stiles’ on him and recognized the boy’s face as the friend and roommate from the photos. He’d had to make excuses and high-tail it out of there before he did something impolite, like rip Scott’s trachea out and crunch it to bits with his fangs while he watched.

 

It took him days to settle his wolf down, which was essentially throwing itself against the inside of Derek’s skull like it could break down the door and go running off after Stiles. It was not a comfortable feeling. It reminded him all over again that he was not a normal human. He was a dangerous Beta, temperamental and possessive. And he just happened to want the young man that came into his space, his territory, every night, delicate and unguarded, smearing his scent around his den, oblivious.

 

His wolf had almost gotten to Stiles before Derek could hold it back. Just a few days ago, the boy had come into the office smelling absolutely delicious except for the slight hint of another werewolf, faint, but enough to make his wolf furious. It didn’t matter that he knew, logically, that it had to be Scott.  Derek was stalking Stiles down the hallway before he even knew he’d moved. If Stiles hadn’t turned just as Derek had reached him, well. But he had turned, and his shout of alarm and spike of fear, so clear in the air, not hidden by as many chemicals as usual, had given Derek back just enough control to keep in together.

 

He had stayed locked in his office for hours after Stiles left, convincing himself not to track the boy down to his apartment. Because, of course, Derek had looked up where it was. At the time, he had told himself he was checking to make sure it wasn’t too close to his own, reassured that he lived across town. There was less of a chance of wolfing out and making it to the boy’s bedroom, the boy’s _bed,_ before he came to his senses, with over ten miles between them.

 

As it was now, after the incident in the hallway, Derek was thinking, very seriously, that he would need to move. It was only a matter of time. And now that his ridiculous, pig-headed, asshole of an uncle had gone and given Stiles’ closest friend the Bite, it was pretty much a necessity. Derek’s wolf wouldn’t be able to handle Stiles living with another wolf, smelling like he belonged to someone else, not when Stiles belonged to _him._

 

See, no, this is why he needed to move. Far away. To the other side of the world, preferably. Even standing in the hallway outside of Peter’s apartment, getting a few confused hits of that scent, he was ready to lose it. His fingertips began to tingle, the itch and tear of claws elongating, getting ready to grab the boy his wolf viewed as his, or tear apart anyone who stood in his way.

 

 _Goddammit!_ Derek barely got his shift under control, deciding that he’d text Peter some excuse rather than risk going inside. Peter would probably appreciate him not tearing his new Beta to shreds on the living room carpet. Derek could be thoughtful like that.

 

He was pulling his cell out of his back pocket and turning down the hall, when the door opened, and a young Succubus girl clamored out, laughing, holding her chosen one around the neck. Derek met Boyd’s eyes, the werewolf looking in control of himself despite the influence of the creature hanging on to him. He raised his dark brow ever so slightly at Derek, before plodding off down the hall, the girl whispering in his ear as he nodded along silently.

 

Normally, Derek would have checked on Peter’s first Beta, making sure that he was going of his own free will to have some of his life force drained - likely in conjunction with an orgasm or two - by the Succubus, who was… a friend of the Banshee’s? The pack was really getting out of hand. Derek didn’t remember half of their names. And only some of them were werewolves. It was like Peter attracted every NAT in the area.

 

Instead of going after Boyd, however, Derek spun back around to the still-open door, the scent of _Stiles_ and _distressed_ hitting his senses like a slap in the face. He moved quickly through the crowd that was milling about, many of them choosing seats in the living room for the impending meeting. He found Stiles quickly, following his nose right to the kitchen, stopping in his tracks at the sight of Stiles in the flesh. There had always been the possibility that Stiles’ scent had just been on Scott’s clothing, that Stiles was somewhere else, safe and not surrounded by a bunch of monsters.

 

The boy looked annoyed, but his scent read of fear and uncertainty. He probably had no idea that it was a useless endeavor to hide his real feelings around so many SUPERNATURALs with their uncanny ability to sense emotions. Instead, he was trying to play it cool, to brush off his friend’s - Scott’s - worry.

 

Just then, Stiles’ eyes lifted over Scott’s shoulder and met Derek’s head-on. Derek’s entire body shuddered, his stomach going tight, first cold, then hot. Fever hot. He could feel his scalp start to sweat, his fingers tickle with the urge to sprout claws. His teeth began to ache, to threaten to rip through his bottom lip as he kept his jaw clamped down tight. He could feel the whine more than hear it, emanating from his own body, high and needy and desperate.

 

Just then he caught the scent of other wolves mixed in with Stiles’ scent. Scott, of course, though stronger than usual, mixing with the clean, pure scent that was all Stiles. The wolf muskiness hung heavy and unwanted, wound around the delicate fragrance of the boy. It smelled like Scott had marked him, had touched him. Like Stiles was wearing Scott’s clothes.

 

Derek’s eyes dropped to the offending T-shirt peeking out from beneath the red flannel Stiles had on over top. A white, red and green visage peered back at him, face frozen in a distorted smile. Derek frowned at the Joker before looking back up at Stiles. The boy was opening his mouth, like he was about to try to either explain something or ask a question, his scent conflicted and alarmed. Before he could say anything, Peter’s voice reached them from the living room, and then everyone was moving in that direction, pulling Stiles, Scott, and Derek along with them.

 

They ended up on opposite sides of the spacious living room, Stiles wedged into an overstuffed chair with Scott; Isaac perched on the arm. Derek kept his claws buried in the backs of his own arms where he gripped his biceps and physically restrained himself from attacking the boys on either side of Stiles. Scott was idly kicking a foot, looking around at everything, acting just like a platonic best friend should. Derek would have been relieved by that fact if it wasn’t for Isaac on the other side, his hip all too conveniently leaned up against Stiles’ shoulder, staring down at the young man with a look Derek did _not_ like.

 

He let out a low growl, too deep for a human to hear, but several of the wolves cocked their heads at him, including Peter. His uncle sauntered around his living room like a ringmaster in a circus, and if Derek hadn’t been so intently focused on Stiles, he would have rolled his eyes at the theatricality. Peter looked at Derek with his eyebrows raised, not used to being ignored by his only surviving nephew, and followed his eyes to where Derek was boring holes in Isaac’s offending hip. Isaac’s fingers just happened to brush Stiles’ arm a moment later, earning another subsonic growl from Derek. Peter’s eyebrows furled, but then evened out, a small smile playing about his lips instead.

 

As if to test some theory of his own, Peter waltzed over to Stiles and, on the pretext of making sure that both the human and his newest Beta were comfortable enough smashed into the chair together, he touched Stiles’ knee. He turned back just in time to see Derek’s eyes flash gold as he bared his teeth, challenging the Alpha over the boy without a second thought. Peter just smirked, his body having blocked Stiles’ view of Derek’s little display, sauntering back to the middle of the room once Derek had gotten himself under control.

 

Derek snuck out as soon as the main part of the meeting had been dealt with and he had given his standard report to his uncle- no new recruits for the pack, no unfamiliar NAT sightings in the area, his usual donation to the pack fund for the month… Once Peter’s attention was off him, Derek was slipping out the door and making a run for the clean air outside. He bent over, huffing great lungfuls, greedily sucking in sanity.

 

He had been so close to breaking. So. Close. Seeing those other wolves around Stiles, _his_ Stiles (see, this is why he really really shouldn’t have learned the boy’s name) had made him just… want to kill and maim and rip and vomit and cry.

 

There was no choice anymore. It was settled.

 

He had to move.

 

* * *

 

The phone call with Peter did not go well. It didn’t help that he refused to admit the real reason for deciding to transfer to the European branch of Hale Industries.

 

“The German team is onto a potential breakthrough. I’m needed there.”

 

“Hm, sure you are,” Peter replied smoothly. Even over the phone Derek could feel him smirk. “And the pack means nothing all of a sudden because…?” The bastard let the sentence hang there.

 

“Of course the pack is important,” Derek defended himself. “I’ll only be gone long enough to get this project up and running smoothly. I need to network with the SUPERNATURALs in that area-”

 

Peter snorted. “You? Network?”

 

“-and see what sort of headway I can make with the emissaries in the German sector of the research team. They have been adept at finding natural landmarks and trees that are strong with magic-”

 

“All of this can happen just as easily without you.”

 

“-and it is good for morale for me to show my face as the only Hale left in the company,” Derek finished, hoping that last point stung his uncle’s conscience, just a bit.

 

Peter heaved a sigh. “This is about the boy, isn’t it?”

 

Derek felt the adrenaline start to rush. “What boy?” he asked too quickly and in a high register.

 

“Listen…” Peter trailed off, as though he was musing something over. “I won't say I’m not interested myself-” Derek snarled and Peter huffed a laugh. “Easy tiger. As I was saying, I’m not unaffected. But I’m not the one that went all glowy-eyed and feral when anyone else so much as looked at him.”

 

“I didn’t go feral-”

 

“So, I’ll ask this once. As a courtesy. Because you’re family. And the loneliest excuse for a man I’ve ever met.” Derek was about to argue the point when Peter continued. “Do you want him?”

 

“What?” Derek asked, stunned.

 

 _“Do. You. Want. Him?”_ Peter enunciated, painfully slowly.

 

“He’s not some gift you can give me. Jesus Christ, Peter-”

 

“Are you so sure about that?”

 

“I’m not having this conversation.”

 

“The way I see it is-”

 

Derek hung up on him. Then he turned off his phone for good measure. Opening his laptop, he began shopping for a one-way ticket to Germany.

 

* * *

 

Derek made it to Monday night before he was back on the sofa in the office. He had even made it home first, fixed dinner, thrown it away, gotten on the treadmill, gotten back off, taken a long shower, then pulled on sweats and gotten back in his car before driving back to the office.

 

He collapsed onto the leather and curled into the cushions. Stiles would have only left a few hours ago, and Derek had purposefully left a bunch of wadded-up paper on the coffee table and the sofa, so that Stiles would have to touch them as he cleaned. God, Derek was an asshole. But oh, sweet merciful heaven, Stiles must have practically rolled around on the leather seat to make it smell so strongly of him. Derek shoved his arms between the cushions and whined.

 

He was being pathetic. Beyond pathetic. He knew it, he just didn’t know how to stop. How did you quit something you never even knew you were addicted to until the withdrawal symptoms were so bad you’d rather die than stop? What was he going to do in Germany when he couldn’t sleep? Pills didn’t work on him. There were sleep potions made by Hale Industry affiliates, but they weren’t for long-term use, and their effects waned quickly on a being as powerfully self-healing as a werewolf.

 

There were the more dangerous options. Wolfsbane, for example. Though after it was used against his family, Derek had never been able to take it as a remedy. The smell of the stuff alone was enough to bring on a panic attack, remembering the faces of his loved ones, contorted in anguish-

 

No. Wolfsbane was out.

 

He racked his thoughts, but nothing was as potent or as appealing as the scent he was greedily huffing in off the sofa in his office. Derek let his face fall against the cushion. He was doomed. But better to go be doomed halfway around the world, than to force himself on the young man who cleaned his desk while wearing DC T-shirts and giving him nervous side glances. That, actually, was really kind of cute and endearing. Derek had tormented himself wondering if those shirts were somehow for his benefit… before coming to his senses and reminding himself that he was a raging pervert with a fixation on a (slightly) younger man.

 

Derek wanted to cry when he woke up a few hours later, the office still dark and empty, humping the goddamned sofa and whining like he was was being tortured. As soon as he was conscious he forced himself to stop moving, his erection jammed against the cushion beneath him.

 

It had started innocently enough. He had been dreaming about introducing Stiles to his mom, telling her about all the amazing things he and Stiles had planned for the future. Then the dream had shifted, his mother was gone, and it was just him and Stiles, alone in the office. Stiles was wearing one of Derek’s button up shirts, and he slowly began pulling the fabric away from the boy like he was a gift, unwrapping him…

 

The uncomfortable mix of loss and family and sex and Stiles, an odd assortment of life’s highlights, all mixed up in the same dream, had Derek gasping for breath. The ache of not having any of it crashing down on him like a ton of bricks. His erection went soft as his tears started to fall. The smell of Stiles was no longer comforting. Instead, it was like a shard of glass lodged under the skin, impossible to ignore, working its way deeper and deeper.

 

He drove back home, more exhausted than when he had left. He was no longer restless. There was no sense of excitement or hope. It was just an aching pain. Another piece of what was missing from his life. His family. His... mate. What did it matter? What did anything matter.

 

He crawled into bed. Eventually it was morning. He couldn’t remember if he had slept or not.

 

* * *

 

“Peter, this is not a good time.”

 

“Hello to you too, darling nephew,” Peter snarked, pushing past Derek into his apartment, uninvited. “You look like shit.” He walked over to the couch, shoving off the blankets and extra pillows Derek had tried cocooning himself with in order to attempt sleep. Not that it had worked. Peter knocked some of the papers and takeout containers off the coffee table to make room for his laptop. “Coping well, as usual, I see.”

 

“What do you want?”

 

“Just to talk over some ideas I have for your German trip.”

 

“Why? You don’t care about the company.”

 

“Now, that’s not strictly true, is it?” Peter asked, giving Derek his ‘tsk tsk’ expression. He patted the sofa patronizingly and Derek stood his ground, staring. “Is that any way to treat your Alpha? Do I need to do the Halloween scary eyes, or are you going to have a seat like a civilized young man before you keel over from exhaustion, and I’m guessing, an epic case of blue balls?”

 

Derek groaned and rubbed is face in exasperation, but ended up seated next to Peter on the couch, staring at the laptop and scowling. Surprisingly, Peter had actually done some research after all, and they discussed the merits of the Black Forest flora for a good twenty minutes. Peter claimed that he was interested in finding a treatment for a human pack member who suffered from migraines. Derek was impressed that Peter had read the team’s whitepaper on the possible uses for the new moss discovered in Germany.

 

After wrapping up a surprisingly intellectual and useful conversation with his uncle, the other shoe dropped. Of course.

 

“Here,” Peter said, shoving the laptop into Derek’s hands. “Take a look at this profile.”

 

Derek’s mouth dropped open as Peter clicked on a tab that he just happened to have conveniently open on the desktop. It was from a dating sight. A queer dating site. And yes. That was most definitely Stiles’ face looking back at him, alluring and serious, his hair rumpled and his clothes just on the right side of too tight and disheveled.

 

 _“Fuck.”_ Did he say that outloud or just think it? Derek clicked his jaw shut. Peter was smirking as he scrolled down the page.

 

“Lydia made him set it up after your disappearing act at the pack meeting.” Peter looked pointedly at Derek while his nephew studiously avoided looking at him. “Apparently he did a spot of modeling last semester, hence the, uh, _appealing_ photo.”

 

 _“Lydia_ made him do this?”

 

“I may have casually suggested it was a good idea…” Peter shrugged.

 

_“Why?”_

 

“Derek, you prude. A young man like Stiles has needs. And now we know what some of those needs are,” he said with a leer, scrolling farther down Stiles’ profile. “I suggest you take a look at some of these gems before he comes to his senses and deletes it.”

 

Derek peered over his shoulder just long enough to see a box labeled _Kinks,_ and then Stiles’ first entry, which was ‘biting.’ Derek slammed the laptop closed and probably would have thrown it out the window, but Peter managed to slip it out of his hands with his superior speed, _laughing._

 

“Oh, I _am_ glad I came over,” Peter crooned, spinning out of Derek’s reach, clutching his computer to his chest with demented glee. “Business _and_ pleasure.”

 

Derek gaped. His hands - clawed from his burst of anger - hung limply at his sides. He watched Peter pack up and waltz to the door, smirking the entire time. Derek trailed after him, lost.

 

“Shame about you leaving, just when the boy seems open to experimenting,” Peter said, opening the door to let himself out. “Oh well, I’m sure he’ll find lots of willing volunteers. He _is_ like candy, after all.” Peter just chuckled at Derek’s responding growl. “And Derek?” Peter said, poised to pull the door closed behind him. “Clean this shithole up, will you?” Then the door clicked shut, and the Alpha of the Hale pack was gone.

 

* * *

 

He read the whole profile. And Peter was right. Stiles seemed _very_ open to experimenting. Derek wondered what sort of comments and propositions he was getting. That lead to wondering if he had accepted any of the invitations, which lead to a mini heart attack, so he had to close the computer and get out of the apartment. That, in turn, ended up being a monumentally bad decision, because in less than an hour, his run in the woods had turned into walking down Stiles’ street.

 

He saw the powder-blue Jeep in the small parking lot of the apartment building and it struck him with full force. He was stalking Stiles. Right now. He had hunted him down and could sniff him out, find his window, slip inside. He was obviously home. Scott’s car was nowhere to be seen. No one would be able to stop him...

 

Derek made it back to his own apartment a panting mess, shaking from the intensity of what he’d considered doing. He sat down at his computer and typed out an email to the German office manager, letting them know that he was moving his trip up, and would be arriving next week. Then he went online and bought a new plane ticket.

 

Five days. He only had to make it five days.

 

* * *

 

He didn’t look at Stiles’ profile again. He watched porn instead. It was the compromise he’d made with himself. He was allowed to get off, he just wasn’t allowed to get off to pictures of Stiles.

 

His wolf paced anxiously around his mind, sensing that things weren’t going as planned with their mate. The wolf couldn’t understand what Derek was waiting for. They’d found their mate. Now they needed to go impress him, then claim him. Simple. Derek groaned and searched ‘intense barebacking gay porn.’

 

Four days. He could make it four days.

 

* * *

 

“Laura?” Derek pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at the number again, puzzled.

 

“Hey, baby bro!”

 

“Wow, it’s really great to hear from you.” Derek couldn’t help the fondness that crept into his voice. He really missed his sister, his packmate, the last of his siblings. “How are you?”

 

“Meh,” she responded. There was a lot of noise over the line, but Derek could still hear the shrug she gave, her clothes rustling then settling. “I’ll be better once I’m home.”

 

“Oh, you’re not at your apartment?”

 

“Well, no,” she responded slowly, suddenly sounding shy. “I meant back _home._ With the pack.” She paused, uncertain. “I have a ticket for next week. I sold all my furniture, and everything else will fit in my luggage, so yeah… I guess I’ll be seeing you in just a few days!” Her voice was tender, hopeful.

 

Derek tensed. This was something he’d been longing to hear for over a year. But why _now,_ of all times?

 

“That’s amazing news,” he said, rubbing his temples where a headache was starting to pound. It took a lot to give a werewolf a headache. “But I’m flying out to Germany in two days.”

 

“Oh.” She sounded super disappointed. Derek’s heart gave a lurch. “No, but that’s okay, bro. We can catch up after. How long you gonna be gone for?”

 

“Uh-”

 

“Oh my god! You’re not _moving_ there, are you?”

 

“Um-”

 

“No! Derek, no, you can’t do this to me! I _need_ you to be there. I-” Her voice broke and she was struggling to hold back tears. Derek felt tiny and scared, unable to comfort her.

 

“I’m not moving there, Laura,” he said gently. This was not the time to bring up the fact that she had moved away a year ago when _he_ had needed _her._ That thought hurt, but it wasn’t enough to destroy his joy at the thought of them being together again. Laura had always made things easier between Peter and himself. It would be so much better with her here. Except… Derek couldn’t trust himself to stay right now. It was sheer willpower that had kept him out of Stiles’ bedroom this long.

 

“Oh, okay. Good,” Laura hiccupped. “I’m going to stay with Peter, at the big den, okay?” Derek smiled. They used to call Peter’s place the little den when the family was still alive. Since the fire, it had become the big den, and Derek’s apartment was the ‘little den.’ He missed his sister.

 

“That sounds good,” Derek said, smiling so that the warmth carried in his voice. “I’m really happy you’re coming home.”

 

“Me too,” she said. He could hear the truth of it.

 

* * *

 

Tomorrow. He could make it to tomorrow.

 

Derek had missed the pack meeting the night before, knowing that there was no way he could be trusted anywhere near Stiles. His wolf was panicking at the thought of leaving its mate behind, unclaimed. It knew as well as Derek, that _anyone_ could come swooping in and carry the boy off if they weren’t there to protect him. Scott, Isaac, _Peter…_

 

He ground his teeth together and packed, ignoring the disaster his apartment had turned into over the past month. He was so engrossed in sorting through clean clothes for the extended business trip, trying not to think about missing Laura’s homecoming, and feeling guilty and worried about pretty much everything, that he didn’t notice the heartbeat in the hallway until a key was turning in the lock.

 

Stiles came tripping through the doorway.

 

“Oh!” he said, shocked to see Derek there, skidding to a stop, a plastic bucket full of cleaning supplies gripped in his long fingers. He was wearing the Batman symbol shirt. “Sorry man, your uncle said that you would be gone already. He uh, gave me a key and hired me to clean up your place. I can come back, uh, tomorrow?”

 

Derek cursed to himself. He had _almost_ made it. He really had intended to go to Germany. He really had meant to leave. But Fate, or Peter, or _whatever,_ had other plans for him.

 

Stiles’ scent was already permeating his den, winding itself up with Derek’s embedded scent. He wanted to hold his breath, but it was too late. Stiles was here. He was marking the place just by standing there awkwardly, waiting for Derek to answer him. No matter what happened now, it would never be just Derek’s again.

 

Derek knew for a certainty that he had wasted a few thousand dollars on plane tickets he would never use.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, luvs! Writing the beginning of this chapter was the highlight of my week. I kinda wish this website really existed... for research purposes, of course.

Stiles _still_ didn’t know how Lydia had talked him into signing up for that dating site. He vaguely recalled sitting on the pack sofa at Peter’s place after the meeting, being handed some sort of mixed drink that tasted like juice and made him see double, looking pathetically around for Derek, when Lydia sat down next to him.

 

“So,” Lydia started, settling in next to him with an open laptop. Stiles tried to catch sight of Scott, who had once again abandoned the squishy human. “You’re gay, right?”

 

“Um… I’m thinking probably bisexual? But I’m not officially out or anything. In fact, I really have no basis for comparison because I haven’t like, actually… you know. I mean, I would _like_ to, it’s just-

 

“Right. Bi. That’s what I meant.” Lydia gave him a tight smile that communicated loud and clear that he was to shut up and do as ordered. She set the computer in his lap and gestured to the screen. “Fill this out then, and we’ll get you sorted.”

 

“Wait, wha..?” Stiles trailed off, staring at the hot, shirtless guy looking back at him from the website’s homepage.

 

“You’re curious to explore your sexuality, right?”

 

“Uh… yes?”

 

“Of course you are. Well, I’m here to help.”

 

“Why?” Stiles questioned. Lydia did that thing where she opened her eyes really wide while her lips pinched together. It had always reminded him of Miss Piggy right before she freaked out on Kermit D. Frog.

 

“It will be fun,” she said, forcing a smile once he had been sufficiently cowed and her eyes had returned to normal. “I have one on a different site and I love it.”

 

“But aren’t you dating Jackson?”

 

“It’s just for fun, Stiles.” He looked at her with his mouth open. She sighed. “It’s for research, okay?”

 

Oh, okay, _that_ Stiles could understand. Research was his thing. Researching his sexuality sounded pretty awesome, put like that. Sexy research. Like, maybe with a labcoat and statistics and thigh highs. Oh, and a feather duster. Yeah. Researching sexy things. Sexsearch. He wanted to do sexsearch.

 

“Okay,” he said, brightening. Lydia rolled her eyes and looked like she was praying for patience before she turned back to him.

 

“Alright, get yourself set up, and make sure you pick a good screen name. Oh, and remember to put down all your kinks. Like, _anything_ you’ve _ever_ thought of trying.” Stiles stared again, his mind running it circles screaming _sex sex sex!_ “The more data you put in,” Lydia explained carefully, “the more data you get out.” Stiles nodded sagely and tapped the side of his nose. Lydia walked away shaking her head and squinting at Peter from across the room.

 

Stiles looked at the computer resting on his thighs, tilting his head at it. He clicked a few of the drop down menus, just to mentally prepare himself. Oh. Those were a lot of sexual identities to choose from.

 

Someone brought him another fruity drink.

 

He should probably look up what those terms meant. He knew there were differences. It’s just that most of the people he hung out with only talked about the big three: straight, gay, or bi. There were _so_ many more than that staring at him off the page.

 

He drained half of the sweet drink, wiping his lips on the back of his hand as he looked around for Scott. Still no werewolf best friend anywhere to be found. He took a few more gulps of the sugary concoction and smiled at it like it was his new pal-for-life. He turned back to the website, trying some of the other drop down menus for filling out his profile.

 

Once it was complete with the basics, save for a picture, he pulled up his email address and found the link to the modeling agency he’d done a few casual shoots for a while back. He picked a decent one with no brands showing, that he was allowed to use for his personal stuff, and then uploaded and centered it in the little box.

 

He finished the drink, watching the ice cubes clink, lonely and boring, at the bottom of the glass, before someone handed him another.

 

It was official. He was signed into the site. Cautiously, he began to poke around, sipping his drink for added courage.

 

It didn’t take him long to conclude that dating profiles were fun! Especially on this site, whatever it was. Wow! So many choices. There were personality tests and gay-o-meter tests and Dom/sub tests, and all sorts of crazy cool stuff to fill out. Like this one interactive graphic that allowed him to pick out sex toys from a cabinet and add them to his “Kinks” or “Possible Kinks, Would Try Once” lists on his main profile. He may have gone a little overboard adding stuff, but it all looked so cool and so hot.

 

Someone brought him another drink.

 

Oh and look at this! They had a fantasy blog that allowed users to write out their deepest desires so other people could comment on them. And another blog with role playing. This was the best! He was never, _ever_ logging off this site, and when he was finally alone, he was going to take full advantage of the video section.

 

He found the pictures of dick piercings under one of the fetish subfolders and, oh yeah. It was official. He was definitely bi. Bi and kinky. And all the guys on this site were so hot. Oh, and there was a chat feature!!! Cool! He wondered what sucking a cock was like. He really wanted to know. Maybe he could message one of these guys and ask. A lot of them had blowjobs added to their “Favorite Vanilla” section, a little cupcake decorating the corner. Cause vanilla. And cupcakes. That was hilarious. Man, whoever thought that up was a genius.

 

Stiles was so so grateful to Lydia for showing him this site. Otherwise how would he have ever known that rimming was something that he really really wanted to try, and that there were a lot of other, _gorgeous_ dudes out there, that might just let him give it a go?

 

Someone handed him another drink.

 

You know who was gorgeous though? Like so gorgeous it hurt? Like, so so so beautiful Stiles couldn’t even? Derek Hot Lips Hale, _that’s_ who. What Stiles wouldn’t do for that man, oh my god, his eyes… soooo pretty. Like all the colors of the world- no! The universe. Yeah, that’s how pretty they were.

 

_Okay, okay Stiles, I get it. You like Derek’s eyes._

 

No! Not just his eyes. His everything. Perfinction. Perflution. _Perfection!_  That was it. So so so perfect. Did Derek like rimming? Maybe Derek would let him try it. It sounded awesome. Any chance Derek had a piercing? That would be so so so hot.

 

_Come on, buddy, give me your keys._

 

Wait, was Derek a werewolf too? Could werewolves get piercings? Werewolves were probably into all sorts of kinky stuff. Howling at the moon, was that a thing? Leashes? Drinking champagne out of doggie bowls from the floor?

 

_Now you’re being offensive, dude. Stop squirming, let me buckle you in._

 

It didn’t matter if Derek was a werewolf, Stiles would still rim him. Rim him good. SO good. He’d be begging for Stiles’ tongue in his ass. Siles would go into Mr. Hale’s office wearing a French maid costume and holding a feather duster, and Derek would swoon and beg to be rimmed, and Stiles would bend him over that big, spotless desk-

 

_-seriously, please stop talking, I’m begging you-_

 

-and lick him out until he came all over himself. And then he’d lick that up as well, until everything was clean. And and and…

 

_Let go of the seatbelt Stiles, we have to go inside._

 

And… and Derek, Derek would… he would… maybe kiss him. Really soft and gentle on the mouth. Sweet and nice and long. They would kiss for a long time…

 

_Let’s at least get your shoes off, bro._

 

...and it would be so good. And Derek would ask him to be his boyfriend, and Stiles would say yes… and then… then…

 

_Goodnight bud, I’ll have the aspirin ready for you in the morning._

 

...then Stiles would kiss him again and… more rimming? Yeah, that sounds good… Perfection.

 

* * *

 

Stiles hated werewolves. Maybe not all of them indiscriminately, but Scott was very high on that list. Because apparently, werewolves didn't get pesky things like hangovers or dehydration or wanting to die because Godzilla was breathing radioactive fire all over the backs of your eyeballs.

 

“Oh, my god,” Scott said for about the millionth time as he scrolled through his phone at the table. He’d gone out to get greasy food for lunch, so he had earned a bunch of friend points. Now, though, he was in the negative again because he would _not_ stop exclaiming over his messages.

 

“No… stop… go ‘way…” Stiles murmured from the nest of his sweatshirt-encased arms. He was lying in the crook of one elbow, shoving food haphazardly into his mouth with the other hand, all while his face was about an inch from the table. He really couldn’t be bothered to sit up or open his eyes longer than it took to locate the next fry.

 

“But, oh my god, dude!”

 

“Please, Scott, I’m begging you. I can’t right now-”

 

“But Stiles, do you _actually_ want to be tied up, held down, and knotted by a werewolf?”

 

Stiles choked on his fries. “Dude!” he said once he could breathe, his head pounding. “You said the shirt scenting was a _friend_ thing. I mean don’t get me wrong, you’re a very handsome young man-”

 

“Stiles-”

 

“-and I would be lucky to have you, but-”

 

Scott turned his phone around and Stiles stopped talking. Wait. Scott’s phone should have been boring black. It should not be such an awesome shade of red… like Stiles’ phone…

 

“That’s my phone!”

 

“Yeah,” Scott said, nonplussed. “And just look at all the sick things people want to do to you. Here, take it, I really shouldn’t be seeing this.”

 

“Oh my god.” Stiles scrolled through the app. He read the first message, even though it was all out of focus - or was that his eyes? - and a shudder ran down his spine. I was not a good shudder. “This guy wants to pee in my mouth. In my _mouth,_ Scott. He led with that. Like, if that is the opening gambit, what’s the endgame? Where can it go from there? Isn’t that sort of the end-of-the-line as far as kinky stuff goes? I mean really? Urine flavored mouthwash? Pass, thank you.”

 

“Don’t read the other ones if you think that one is extreme.”

 

“What did I even put in my profile? It couldn’t have been that bad. I mean, I remember adding something about blindfolds and-”

 

Scott grabbed the phone back out of Stiles’ hands. He scrolled and then tapped a few times, before handing it back.

 

“Oh.”

 

Apparently, drunk Stiles wanted to do all the things. All of them. And not only that, inebriated him seemed to have developed an overwhelming desire to experience sex with a SUPERNATURAL. Stress on the “L.” For Lycanthrope. As in claws and fangs and glowy eyes and _grrr I want to mate you._

 

“I can’t believe you put knotting at the top of your list, dude. That kinda makes me feel weird.”

 

Stiles groaned. He needed to delete the damn profile. He found the option to erase his account, but it was password encrypted. He was still signed into the site itself, but it wanted him to confirm the password before he could wipe this embarrassing encounter from the face of the Internet. He groaned even louder. Drunk Stiles was notorious for thinking up wildly wonderful and inventive passwords that he never wrote down or remembered in the harsh light of day.

 

He shut the app and pushed his phone away. That was something sober Stiles got to look forward to handling later. Preferably after hungover Stiles was no more.

 

“Oh, and Peter wants you to come to the next pack meeting. He says he wants to talk to you about something.”

 

Stiles whimpered pitifully and buried his head in his arms, foregoing the rest of his fries in order to hide and hope that Scott would vanish if he wasn’t looking at him. When he peeked, Scott was still there.

 

“He said it was important, man.”

 

“He’s not _my_ Alpha.” Stiles glanced at Scott again, his friend’s lip pushed out in a pout, begging eyes turned to maximum. “Fine! I’ll go to the next pack meeting with you. Now, please, get me some more aspirin?”

 

Scott, smiling happily now that he’d gotten what he wanted (just like always, Stiles thought, uncharitably), got up to get him the bottle of pills and a glass of water. Stiles stared at his phone for a bit, looking at the preview of each message before deleting them. If he happened to open a few of the ones that claimed they were from werewolves, it was just for research purposes only.

 

* * *

 

How had Peter managed to talk him into this? Just a few weeks ago, he had no idea his best friend had gotten the Bite from a sleazy, middle-aged Alpha, and here he was, the non-pack human, trotting off to do the master’s bidding.

 

Stiles sighed and shifted the cleaning bucket from one hand to the other so he could get the key out of his front pocket. He stared at Mr. Hale’s front door for a minute, giving in momentarily to the fantasy that the man would actually be there, waiting for him.

 

It was dumb. Stiles knew it was dumb. First off, according to Peter, this was to be a “surprise” for when Derek got home from Europe, though the Alpha had been very vague on the details of when exactly that would be. He had just told Stiles to load up all his unscented cleaning supplies and head over to his nephew’s apartment. The werewolf had leaned in close then, obviously huffing in Stiles’ scent, as he tucked an address, a key, and $500 into Stiles’ pocket.

 

Peter had been shocked, much to Stiles’ delight, when he’d taken everything back out of his pocket and shoved into Peter’s hand. The Alpha’s face had gone from surprised to delighted, and he leaned in again, unnecessarily close to Stiles’ ear and whispered: _“magic books.”_

 

Stiles had caved. Just like that.

 

So here he was, about to enter his boss’ house without his knowledge or consent and, oh yeah, whom he was almost 100% positive was a SUPERNATURAL. Great. This was a great idea.

 

Still… damn, it would be so sexy to catch him like, just getting out of the shower or something. A towel wrapped around that slim waist. His dark hair dripping in his face. Stubble all rough since he wouldn’t have shaved yet. Chest on full display. A cute little shocked look on his gorgeous face…

 

Stiles didn’t scream this time, but it was a near thing. He’d been so wrapped up in the fantasy of Mr. Hale being there, that when he saw that he _actually was,_ and that he wasn’t just hallucinating him, Stiles about jumped out of his skin.

 

“Oh, sorry man!” Stiles’ brain scrambled over itself and he tried not to drop the expensive organic cleaning supplies. This was the corner office incident all over again. “Your uncle said that you would be gone already. He uh, gave me a key and hired me to clean up your place. I can come back, uh, tomorrow?”

 

Mr. Hale’s eyes went from wide, to panicked, to resigned. He dropped the crisp white dress shirt he’d been holding, letting it land in a soft heap on the couch, in order to run his hands over his face. Stiles couldn’t help but feel guilty at the distress this was causing the man. He was clearly just as touchy about his apartment as he was about his office- hating any sort of intrusion into his personal space. Especially when it was Stiles, it would seem.

 

Though, looking around, Stiles was pretty shocked to see that the apartment was in nothing like the precise order of the office. It looked like a nice place that had just been under assault from a truly terrible houseguest. The furniture was like something out of a catalog, all arranged in perfect groupings for the spaces it occupied - which did remind him of Mr. Hale’s office - but there was a layer of chaos over everything.

 

A basket of laundry sat in the one spot of the sofa that wasn’t overflowing with papers, take out containers, empty bottles of what looked like protein shakes and maybe juice, and a blanket and pillow obviously dragged out from the bedroom. A laptop was balanced precariously on a stack of books, which itself was resting on a pile of unopened mail on the coffee table. Sitting in the middle of it all was a large suitcase, half of it neatly packed with white undershirts - V-necked, he noted - a stack of precisely folded black boxer briefs (Lord help him, he was going to remember those) and a pyramid of paired socks. At least Mr. Hale packed a suitcase like he kept his office.

 

Stiles’ eyes trailed around the rest of the room, noting the mash-up of obsessive orderliness meeting an anti-Martha Stewart reign of terror. He could just see into the open doorway of the kitchen and what was probably every dish Mr. Hale owned sitting out on the counter.

 

“On second thought, maybe I should start now?” Stiles asked Mr. Hale’s hands, which were still covering his face. The man just nodded, resigned, giving into his fate. Again, Stiles felt bad. This guy really valued his privacy. It was like he couldn’t deal with other people in his space and… oh. “You’re a werewolf, aren’t you?”

 

The hands dropped to reveal that face again, and man, did that face give Stiles chills or what? The kaleidoscopic eyes fixed on him as the dark brows raised.

 

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Stiles babbled. “I get it. I should have probably known right away, but I didn’t, alright?”

 

“Why would you have known right away?” the man asked. Finally. Words. Though they threw him for a loop.

 

“I uh… Look, no one told me, alright? I wasn’t even sure until now. In fact, I’m still not sure. You _are_ a werewolf, right?” Stiles asked in desperation, gesturing at Mr. Hale’s entire body. The man slowly nodded, eyes wide and face caught between angry and confused. Damn, if that wasn’t a good look on him. “Okay, great. Well that’s settled. And it goes a long way to explain why Peter made me stop and get unscented stuff from the hippie store.”

 

“I can pay you back,” Mr. Mooniverse said. Stiles tried not to laugh. Mooniverse… cause werewolves and the moon and… yeah. He was losing it. It was Stiles’ turn to hide his face behind his hands.

 

“No, no man, it’s fine. Your uncle paid me more than enough. That’s not an issue. I just…”  he gestured at Mr. Hale again. “Werewolf,” he ended lamely.

 

“How much?”

 

“Eh?”

 

“How much did Peter give you to clean my apartment?”

 

“Five hundred bucks,” Stiles admitted sheepishly.

 

“I’ll double it if you just leave,” Mr. Hale said, his voice sounding choked.

 

“But-”

 

“I’ll triple it.” Mr. Hale’s face was looking quietly desperate. He was doing that self-hug thing that he had done in the hallway a few weeks ago.

 

“No, it’s okay,” Stiles said, holding his hands up in a gentling motion. Mr. Hale’s eyes tracked them as they moved. Something about the look reminded Stiles that he was in the den of a predator. He felt blood rush to his face and… other places. Goddammit, dick! We can’t take you anywhere!

 

The grip of those toned arms tightened around Mr. Hale’s torso. Woah. Stiles had never seen him short sleeves before. That was… that was really really nice muscle definition and okay not helping the growing downstairs issue.

 

“Tell you what,” Stiles said, coming up with a plan in desperation. He couldn’t just take his money and leave. It would make work at the office impossibly embarrassing, and Stiles really couldn’t afford to lose his job right now. He had to remedy this somehow. Maybe Mr. Hale just needed to get used to him being in his space. Maybe if he couldn’t see Stiles it would be easier. “I’ll just go and clean the kitchen, okay? I’ll just get that done. And if you still want me to go after that, I’ll go for free, alright?’

 

The man just stared at him, biceps straining obscenely as he gripped them across his chest. Stiles tripped his way into the kitchen, trying not to look over his shoulder, both fearing and hoping that the werewolf would be stalking after him. His survival instinct was apparently not in communication with his libido whatsoever. Once alone in the kitchen, he took some deep breaths, adjusted himself in his boxers, and then set to work loading the dishwasher.

 

He could tell what Mr. Hale’s life was like, or, at least, what it had been like this last week, by the way the dishes were stacked next to the sink. There was one plate, one fork, and one glass, all clustered together. Then one bowl, one spoon, one coffee mug. The small clusters were set all over the counter, resting there in a sort of haphazard order. There were never two plates or two bowls stacked together. None of the glasses or white ceramic mugs had any lipstick stains from a hypothetical girlfriend or one night stand. These were the dishes of a man that lived alone and never had company over.

 

After the dishwasher was filled with soap, locked, and running quietly, Stiles looked around and was happy to see that most of the clutter had come from all of the dishes on the counter, and the kitchen was actually looking pretty good. He wiped down the countertops, smiling to himself that they were just plain laminate and not real slabs of marble. They weren’t even pretending to be marble. They were very clearly middle-of-the-road cabinets and countertops. The backsplash was done in subway tile, and the floor was polished concrete, but it was like whoever did the kitchen had given up trying to be modern and fancy by the time they installed the cabinets and work surfaces.

 

It was odd that one of the richest men in America had such a modest kitchen. In fact, while the apartment as a whole was nice, it wasn’t anything that special. It looked like Mr. Hale had hired a decorator, and that person had started to set it up like a Pottery Barn catalog, and then been kicked out before they could get to the flower arrangements and knick knacks.

 

As he was looking around for a broom, Stiles suddenly noticed how quiet it was. Mr. Hale had been in the middle of packing when he’d come in, but Stiles hadn’t heard a peep out of him since he’d started cleaning. Mr. Hale was light on his feet, as Stiles was very well aware. But unless the soft purrs of the dishwasher were drowning out his movements, Stiles didn’t think that the man was still packing.

 

It nagged at him while he swept, the quiet apartment seeming eerie and unnatural. Stiles finally gave into it and, leaning the broom against the wall, he crept out of the kitchen to go check on his boss.

 

He found him out in the living room, in almost the same place that he’d left him, though Mr. Hale had moved to lean against the open window frame, a soft breeze blowing in from outside. He turned as Stiles approached him, his eyes growing wide once more. This guy had the most insane startle reflex Stiles had ever encountered. He was even sweating, the beads of perspiration standing out on his forehead.

 

“Um, hey,” Stiles greeted him, waving awkwardly. “You need help with packing?” He glanced over towards the suitcase. It was obvious that Mr. Hale hadn’t touched it since Stiles had gotten there. His button up shirt was still lying crumpled on the sofa, and the clean basket of laundry was cooling and wrinkling inside the basket. Stiles could at least shake out the shirts for him and hang them up to prevent hard-to-iron-out creases.

 

“No, that’s okay,” Mr. Hale said, seeing his gaze directed at the laundry and moving to intercept him before he could grab one of the shirts. He carefully maneuvered the basket out of Stiles’ reach and then nearly collapsed into the window frame again. His head was angled away from Stiles when he said, “My flight’s been canceled.”

 

“What? Really?” Stiles asked, moving closer so he could hear Mr. Hale better. The man shot him such a horrified look that Stiles froze in his tracks. The dark-haired man seemed to relax a little bit when Stiles stopped moving towards him. Man, the poor guy must be like, _super_ germophobic.  

 

Stiles glanced around. Maybe he was extra stressed because his apartment was so messy right now. He obviously didn’t live like this all the time. The place was too clean and well-organized under the mess. The surface chaos was obviously only a recent issue. Maybe what Mr. Hale really needed was for someone to help him out with the cleaning, so he could destress. Especially now, since he wasn’t flying out tomorrow.

 

“When are you leaving, then?” Stiles asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets and trying to look casual. Mr. Hale just looked confused, like he’d forgotten what they were talking about. Huh. Maybe Peter was right. Maybe Hale _did_ need looking after if he got this scatterbrained at home. “Your flight?” Stiles asked. “When are you scheduled to leave? I can help you pack and-”

 

“The trip was canceled.”

 

“Oh,” Stiles said, his eyes darting to the half-packed suitcase. Derek followed his gaze.

 

“I was just informed a few minutes ago.”

 

“I didn’t hear the phone-”

 

“By email.”

 

“Ah,” Stiles said. That must be what set Mr. Hale off. He seemed like the kind of person that needed everything super structured in order to function. His plans changing last minute like this was probably super stressful on a guy like him. Stiles got it. He could be sympathetic to stuff like that. “Let me help you get all this stuff put away-” _(don’t think about the underwear, don’t think about the underwear, don’t think about the underwear),_ “-and then I can finish cleaning the kitchen.”

 

“No!” Derek said, lunging forward and actually kicking the suitcase out of the way as Stiles leaned over to grab it and lug it to the bedroom. He just as quickly sprung back to the window again. “Uh, no thank you,” he said, more calmly.

 

“Oookaaay…. Well, I’m just going to go mop the kitchen floor…”

 

Derek nodded, a little too enthusiastically. Stiles felt a bit stung. He was man enough to admit it when his feelings were trod upon by a gorgeous, broody fantasy-come-to-life. He made his way back to the other room and ran a wet mop over the floor while scowling to himself. He was trying to stay sympathetic to Mr. Hale’s issues. He was clearly socially anxious, maybe a bit OCD and a touch agoraphobic. Stiles was no poster boy for mental and emotional stability himself, so he was more than willing to cut the guy some slack. But seriously. Not wanting Stiles to touch his clothes, like he had some sort of infectious disease… That was hard to be gracious about.

 

“I finished in the kitchen,” Stiles announced, finding Mr. Hale in the same place by the window. “Your uncle paid me to do the entire place, so-”

 

“Not the bedroom,” Mr. Hale blurted, his ears instantly burning red. It was so cute, Stiles could almost forgive him for the implication that he wasn’t to be trusted poking around in the bedroom.

 

“Sure, yeah, whatever you say,” Stiles reassured him. “So… would tomorrow be alright? You weren’t expecting me, and now your plans have changed, so maybe tomorrow would be better?”

 

Mr. Hale stared at him for a long, tense minute. Stiles began to wonder if he had something on his face.. “Okay,” he said at last, letting out a breath and deflating in on himself. Progress, Stiles thought proudly. Maybe at some point, Mr. Hale would learn that having people in his space wasn’t so bad afterall.

 

Stiles left him to pack up his cleaning supplies, stopping back near the werewolf to say goodbye. He had been thinking about shaking the guy’s hand, but it was clenched under his armpit and didn’t look like it was coming out to play anytime soon.

 

“Well, see you tomorrow, Mr. Hale,” Stiles said, as brightly as he could muster, turning the doorknob.

 

“Derek.” It was so softly spoken, Stiles wasn’t sure if he had actually heard him.

 

“Sorry, what?”

 

“Call me Derek.”

 

“Uh, okay. Sure thing, Derek. Night.”

 

“Goodnight.”

 

Stiles let the door shut behind him, listening for a moment for any signs of movement. There weren’t any. Stiles got in the Jeep, idly wondering how long Derek would stand by that window after he left, probably trying to air out Stile’s germs or something. He hoped he hadn’t made the poor man’s condition any worse by being in his space. He shrugged to himself as he clicked on the radio. Maybe the guy would get over his hangups once he realized that having Stiles around wasn’t going to do either of them any harm.

 

Stiles cranked up the radio when the 80’s throw-back station started playing Duran Duran. He smiled shook his head, singing along.

 

"I'm on the hunt down... I'm after you… Mouth is alive... with juices like wine… And I'm hungry like the wolf!" he crooned, laughing as he turned off Derek’s street and onto the main road.

  



	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY. Sorry guys, I was working overtime that last few weeks!

Derek stood at his window until after midnight, hoping that none of the neighbors called the cops on him. When he finally trusted himself to move, his joints ached from how rigidly he’d been standing. Several popped, the healing factor taking care of the pain swiftly, as he turned to face the reality of what had happened.

 

His scent. Stiles’ scent. Chemically merged. Basically everything good and comforting and stimulating and just… the worst.

 

Tentatively, he inhaled. He let that breath out and then inhaled again. Slowly, not too deep. Wading into the shallow end, still right by the open window.  

 

He had two goals. One - which would apply for the rest of his life - was not to hunt Stiles down. That was the main focus of _everything_ from here on out. The second goal, much smaller by comparison, but at the moment just as daunting, was this: make it to the bathroom, take a shower, and get inside his bedroom without letting any of Stiles’ scent in.

 

He inched his right foot forward, then the left, keeping strict track of his mental state. Though he was in danger of letting his claws out, and his gums tickled from the urge to shift to fangs, he was still reasonably in control of himself.

 

Halfway across the room now. His erection was pressing tight against his zipper, the waistband hindering it from expanding properly. He clenched his teeth/fangs. Almost to the hallway. Stiles’ scent wasn’t so heavy here, since he’d been in the livingroom and kitchen only. Derek was almost to the bathroom. Past the hall closet… past the door to the laundry room, and… he’d made it.

 

Derek slammed and locked the door behind him, only to open it back up a moment later and toss all of his clothes in the direction of the laundry room, before locking himself back in the bathroom again. He didn’t even wait for the water to get warm, he just threw himself under the spray, grabbing his conditioner and squirting a large dollop into his palms, dropping the bottle and grabbing his dick with both hands. He made as much of a channel for his cock as he could, grinding into his fists as he twisted them tight around his iron-hard erection, staring down while he did it, growling.

 

He wanted to bite something. Someone. He should have brought something Stiles had touched in with him, to scent while he did this. He should have let Stiles touch one of his shirts, so that he could hold it in his teeth now, bite down until he tasted his own blood and just _pretend..._

 

His hands and hips were moving erratically, his body hovering right on the edge, craving a hit of Stiles’ scent. He moved too sharply and his feet slipped on the slick tiles. He caught himself on his knee as he went down, the sudden pain making him clench his fists around his growing knot, jolting him into orgasm. He leaned against the cold shower wall with the water running over his chest, grasping his knot and screaming in... Pain? Ecstasy?

 

He stretched the injured knee out and it began to heal. The sudden relief - he was sure he had cracked his kneecap - catapulted him into another release. He watched in awe and horror as his body produced jets of come that hit is chest and stomach, catching in his matted hair. He clutched his knot and panted as the last spurts leaked from his slit and dribbled over his knuckles, only to slither down his body with the rushing water.

 

He didn’t stand until his knee was fully healed and could take the weight, but then he washed thoroughly. Twice. With lots and lots of scent-neutralizing soap. He did it all in a daze, like he had gotten really drunk and was just now getting to the _‘feeling slightly sick’_ phase of being plastered.

 

He felt drained, empty - quite literally - and of all things, he wanted to hold someone. Really really bad. Maybe that was a side effect of knotting. It made sense. If you were tied to someone for a good half hour or more, it would be in everyone’s best interest to feel like cuddling.

 

He felt cold too, like he ought to be buried in someone’s _(Stiles, only Stiles)_ warm heat, not toweling off all alone. He was starting to feel sort of… oh god… _emotional._ Like he needed to laugh or cry and was confused as to which. But mostly, he felt tired. Tired, and alone, and for fuck’s sake, at least the urge to go after Stiles was manageable now. He felt more like calling him up and whining that he missed him (he would _never_ do that) and begging him to come over so he could spoon him… Alright, so _Stiles_ could spoon _Derek._

 

Finally dry, he stood nude, just inside the bathroom door, taking deep breaths of steamy air. He got himself under control, took in a lungful, then threw open the door and booked it for his bedroom, yanking the door open just far enough to make it inside before slamming it closed and rushing to the opposite wall. Still holding his breath, he opened as many windows as he could and then flopped down on his bare butt on the floor. Finally, he breathed in.

 

To his tremendous relief, he could barely smell Stiles. It was so faint that, if he wasn’t specifically sniffing around for it, he wouldn’t even know it was there. He breathed deep, falling onto his back on his carpet in the dim room. Tension in his spine and shoulders drained away as he lay there, no longer having to restrain himself with every fiber of his being not to take off after Stiles.

 

He let his eyes drift closed, the breeze from the window ruffling his damp hair and running over his skin. He let his breathing slow down, concentrated on the feeling of the floor holding him up, letting his mind wander. It would be alright, he decided. If he could keep his bedroom to himself, he could make it through tomorrow. And the days at the office. He just had to come home when he was supposed to, no staying late. If he started locking his office door before he left and leaving the windows open, Stiles’ scent would begin to dissipate. Same with his apartment.

 

He could do this.

 

* * *

 

He couldn’t do this.

 

He woke up, still sprawled on the floor, with a headache to end all headaches (seriously, it took a lot to give a werewolf a headache), and all he could think about was the fact that if he walked out of the door, he would be surrounded in Stiles’ scent. He wanted it. He had to have it. It was the only thing that would make all the bad things go away.

 

Derek curled up into a ball and refused to cry. Self pity wasn’t going to solve this. He was supposed to be on a plane in… he checked the clock on the nightstand… yeah, well, nineteen minutes ago.

 

He was cold but he didn’t care. He was thirsty too. And uncomfortable. Good. He deserved that. He hadn’t earned feeling nice because he was a horrible stalker who was having shower fantasies about knotting and biting his employee.

 

Derek ran his fingers through his hair and made a face. He hadn’t done anything with it after his shower the previous night. His fingers slipped through the soft strands, which promptly flopped one way and fluffed out another. He’d deal with that later. He would probably need another shower after walking into the kitchen to make coffee cocooned him in Stiles’ scent.

 

Maybe if he opened all the windows before Stiles got to the apartment it would help. Derek could clean as much as possible too, so that Stiles wouldn’t stay as long. He’d lock up his bedroom door, leave a note and a tip for Stiles, and sneak over to one of the cafes that did Sunday brunch, and watch for Stiles’ Jeep. Maybe not the best plan but-

 

There was a knock at the front door.

 

 _Fuck!_ Derek looked around like a trapped animal hunting for a way out of a cage. His eyes landed in his lap and he remembered that - not only had he managed to sleep on the floor last night - but he was also completely nude.

 

He scrambled to get on a pair of sweatpants and had just made it to the bathroom and was brushing his teeth and running wet fingers through his hair to try and tame it, when keys turned in the lock. He could hear Stiles’ heartbeat, fast and strong, out in the livingroom.

 

The windows were all still closed, he realized, as he rinsed the toothpaste out of his mouth and looked at his reflection in disgust. His hair was mostly tamed, but he had forgotten to grab a shirt, and Stiles was bound to see him as soon as he left the bathroom. He briefly considered draping a towel over his shoulders, but decided that would just be weird, so, after taking a final, deep breath, he opened the door and strode out into the hallway with as much confidence as he could muster. Glancing at his bedroom door, he was relieved to see that he’d remembered to close it.

 

He turned back to find Stiles in the middle of tossing empty to-go containers into a large garbage bag. He had just gotten started, by the look of it. His bucket of cleaning stuff was sitting next to the front door and his hoodie was hanging from the closet door handle.

 

“Hi, Derek,” Stiles greeted from where he was crouched half-under the coffee table to grab a kale chip bag. “You know, it’s going to be hard for me to remember to call you that and not Mr. Hale, so don’t get mad if I...uh....” Stiles had straightened up and was frozen in the act of chucking trash in the bag, staring at Derek dazedly, his amber eyes half-lidded and his mouth slack. Once again, Derek noted the way his teeth didn’t show when he did that. It made him look even younger than he was. He felt torn between feeling fond of him for being adorable, turned on by Stiles on his knees with his mouth open, and feeling like a total creep for having the first two feelings at all.

 

“Hi, Stiles,” Derek said, his voice much softer than he’d intended, as though not wanting to break the moment. He should though, he really should. Stiles’ eyes were practically caressing him and, even though he was breathing as shallowly as possible, he could detect arousal coming from the boy, and oh god, why was this his life?

 

Clearing his throat effectively pulled Stiles’ out of whatever thoughts he was having, causing him to flail and then go red. “Hey,” Stiles said, finally remembering he was clutching an empty wrapper and tossing it in the trash bag. Then he froze, like he realized he’d just said hello twice.

 

“You’re here early,” Derek said. He could do this. He could behave normally for a few minutes, then make up some excuse and leave. It would be fine. He could do this…

 

“Oh, uh, yeah.” Stiles ran a hand over his hair and then tugged at his T-shirt - a plain one this time - before he picked up and bagged a few more empty containers. “Sorry, I didn’t have your phone number or I would’ve called first. I just… it’s just that…”

 

Derek waited patiently. Really, the less he moved, the better. He didn’t want to rile up his wolf any more than it already was, and it was currently running circles inside his chest, yipping in glee.

 

“...it’s just that I thought you’d be more, um, _comfortable_ once your space was cleaned up,” Stiles finally said. Derek tilted his head at him, wondering if he had missed something. “You know. Less to worry about. After having your plans change so suddenly. That can be stressful, right? I mean, especially for someone like you.”

 

“Someone like me?”

 

“Yeah. You know… someone who is really… _organized.”_

 

“Oh, okay. Thanks, I guess.” They stared awkwardly at each other for a few moments. “Coffee?” Derek finally thought to ask.

 

“Yes, oh my god, yes! You have _no_ idea how much of a caffeine addiction I have.”

 

“You haven’t had any today,” Derek remarked without thinking. He grabbed a shirt out of his still-open suitcase (stupid, smells too much like Stiles) and pulled it on, heading for the kitchen. He needed to get some distance and start opening windows. Except that Stiles was following on his heels.

 

“Huh?”

 

“Coffee,” Derek answered, trying to focus on anything other than the heartbeat tracking him through his den. “You usually smell a little bit like coffee, but you don’t right now.”

 

“Woah! I am _not_ used to werewolves yet. You guys are insanely sensitive aren’t you? To smells and sounds and stuff? Scott is always complaining about how everything smells to him now.”

 

Stiles trotted into the kitchen behind Derek and pretty much shadowed his footsteps while he made coffee, talking away and moving his hands the whole time.

 

“He totally hates having to pump gas now,” Stiles continued. “It like, makes him gag. But he loves the lumber section at the hardware store. He says that he can smell all the different types of trees. It’s not like he knows all their names or anything, but he says that each one has a different smell.”

 

“Uh-huh. They do,” Derek said, trying to stay at least a couple of feet away from Stiles while he moved around the kitchen. Stiles seemed to notice and was careful not to touch him. Thank Christ for small mercies. Derek was starting to feel light-headed, but he blamed that on the shallow breathing. He cracked a window open as he moved past the sill.

 

“Cool!” Stills exclaimed when Derek got out the coffee mugs. “Do you have a whole set of these?” he asked, picking up a classic Wonder Woman mug and looking at the mark on the bottom.

 

“Yeah,” Derek said, watching the coffee begin to drip into the pot and allowing himself to breathe a little deeper once it’s fragrance helped cut Stiles’ scent. Though it was still taking up most of his brain power to act human and not go feral and bite that delicious, bare throat. So exposed and creamy-pale, flashing as Stiles breathed... What had Stiles asked? Oh, the mugs. “My parents got them as a joke. Everyone in the family had one. They were all in the dishwasher when the house… when the fire happened. They weren’t even damaged.”

 

Stiles was looking at him with big eyes. Dammit, he shouldn’t have said that part about the fire.

 

It had amazed Derek that a set of fragile, breakable mugs had made it through the flames and his family hadn’t. It had been a slap in the face to find the mugs just sitting there on the rack, not even charred, while eighty percent of the house was ash. He had thought, very seriously, about smashing them all against the one wall that was still standing, enraged that the damn cups were fine but nearly everyone he loved was dead.

 

In the end, he had kept them. They reminded him of the last time the family had all sat around, the grownups with their mugs of coffee and the little kids with hot chocolate. His mom had filled the dishwasher, even though it was technically Derek’s night, because he had work…

 

“Which one’s yours?” Stiles asked, pulling Derek out of his spiralling memories.

 

Derek reached out a finger and tapped one of the mugs.

 

Stiles chuckled. “Superman, of course,” he said, giving a small nod of approval. “Then who had Robin?” Stiles continued to ask about the mugs and Derek told him which DC character belonged to which family member, with Stiles commenting on each hero’s powers. Somehow, it didn’t hurt to say his family’s names out loud, with Stills smiling at each one, as if he had known them too.

 

Derek let Stiles pick out a mug for his coffee, rolling his eyes when he selected Batman. He poured their coffee and set Stiles’ mug down close to him, then moved quickly back to his side of the counter. Stiles looked at the cup, then back up at Derek.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Are you sure?” Stiles asked. Derek’s brain stumbled trying to figure out what he meant. “About me using one of your mugs. You’re okay with it?” He looked genuinely worried.

 

Oh god, did Stiles know?

 

Had he figured out how obsessed Derek was with his scent?

 

Would Peter have told him?

 

Or maybe he’d worked it out for himself. Afterall, Derek practically plastered his office with crumpled paper, trying to get Stiles to linger there for as long as possible. Maybe he realized what was going on.

 

Well, if he did, then he obviously didn’t know the danger, though it was smart of him to inquire just how far Derek could be pushed. And yes, Stiles actually putting his mouth on something Deek owned was different than him brushing his fingers over the sofa as he tidied up. But still. Derek wanted to feed him. He wanted to give things to Stiles. The thought of denying him anything, even coffee, was abhorrent.

 

Stiles’ body chemistry had roofied him.

 

“I’ll wash it really good after,” Stiles promised.

 

“Okay, yeah,” Derek agreed. The less things smelled like Stiles, the better. Though that was mostly a lost cause now, except for the bedroom. “That would be good, actually.”

 

Stiles smiled at him. “I promise there won’t be any germs left alive.”

 

Germs?

 

“Cool, thanks.”

 

Stiles seemed to relax more after that, sipping at his coffee and talking about Derek’s kitchen. He teased him about the countertops and Derek just rolled his eyes. He explained that he’d bought it from a guy Peter knew, and that he hadn’t bothered to fix it up since.

 

“You had a decorator though, right? Or do you normally shop at Pottery Barn?”

 

Derek snorted. “My sister, Laura, picked most of it out, actually. Before she moved.”

 

“Yeah, didn’t strike me as your style, big guy.” It seemed like Stiles was going to punch him playfully in the shoulder, before stopping abruptly and dropping his hand. Derek tried to quell his disappointment by reminding himself what would probably happen if Stiles touched him. His wolf whined in the back of his head and Derek grimaced.

 

They finished their coffee and Stiles washed the Batman mug twice with soap before putting it in the dishwasher, which made Derek huff a small laugh. Then he escaped to his bedroom, opening windows as he went.

 

He was noodling around on his laptop, in a fresh shirt, trying not to think about Stiles puttering about his home, being all cute and innocent and _vulnerable,_ when there was a knock on his bedroom door. Because of course there was.

 

“I’ll be out in a second,” he called. He needed Stiles to back away from the door before he opened it. The oil from his skin would already be on the wood panel, he realized. Derek’s tentative sanity was totally reliant on a thin sheet of pine and varnish.

 

“Okay!” Stiles hollered back, and then his steps retreated down the hall and into the living room. Derek took some deep breaths, then put on his game face and went to see what he needed.

 

“You’re out of vacuum cleaner bags.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Silence.

 

“So… I need to go to the store to get some, I guess?”

 

“Yeah, okay,” Derek said, feeling like an idiot. He groped at his pockets for a moment, found his wallet, and opened it to only plastic. “I don’t have any cash.”

 

“That’s alright. Peter overpaid me anyway. I can totally-”

 

“No, I should buy them.” Derek’s wolf was being stubborn. “I’ll just run to Target.”

 

“Roadtrip!” Stiles crowed delightedly, grabbing his hoodie and pushing his arms into the sleeves. His smile fell away as he looked back at Derek. “Oh,” he said, looking like Derek had canceled Christmas, “you meant that you were going alone.”

 

Derek was going to regret this. “I need you to get the right bags,” he said.

 

Stiles beamed. Derek’s heart hurt. He was really going to regret this. “Okay,” he agreed, zipping up his hoodie and bouncing to the door. “You need coffee filters too. I noticed you’re low. And dish soap. Oh, and I used the last of your paper towel.”

 

Derek locked the door to his apartment, following Stiles, still chattering, down the hall to the stairs.

 

* * *

 

For the first time in his life, Derek completely understood the laws about not driving while under the influence. Being a werewolf meant that he’d never been over the legal limit, no matter how much he chose to drink, but being in a car with Stiles was downright dangerous to public safety. He focused all his attention on the road, and willed himself to go in a straight line and stop at red lights, until they were finally pulling into the Target parking lot.

 

Stiles, who hadn’t stopped talking the entire way, grabbed a bright red shopping cart as soon as they were through the automatic doors. He somehow managed to drape himself over the bar so that he could lean on the cart and propel himself with one foot like he was riding a scooter. Derek trailed behind him, trying not to stare.

 

Instead of going straight to the vacuum cleaner section, they somehow ended up in one of the kitchen aisles, looking at cutting boards. And bread pans. And non-slip baking mats.

 

“Here,” Stiles said happily, holding up a bright red, ceramic _thing._ “These make awesome coffee. You need one.”

 

“I have no idea what that is or how to use it.”

 

“I’ll show you,” Stiles promised, setting it in the cart. “You will be _so happy_ I made you get this. Though it does take different filters than your machine, which you need anyway so, filter aisle!”

 

The cart was half-full by the time they finally reached the vacuum cleaner supplies. Derek found he absolutely could not say no to Stiles. As if that weren’t enough, he was also facing another, perhaps more worrying issue. Every time Stiles picked something up to show him, Derek knew that if he said no, then Stiles would put it back on the shelf, _but it would still smell like Stiles._ He wasn’t sure what upset him more: the idea that he was leaving something behind that Stiles had claimed as his with his scent, or the thought of someone else coming along and buying it. Of someone else owning that little bit of Stiles that Derek could have kept for himself.

 

He had issues.

 

And a lot of stuff he was going to have to buy.

 

“These are the ones you need,” Stiles announced, holding up a suspiciously small box.

 

“Get a couple,” Derek said, and Stiles threw three more boxes into the cart.

 

Waltzing down the aisle, Stiles told a story about accidentally vacuuming up one of his shoelaces as a kid and freaking out when he couldn’t get the thing turned off and it had started to smell like burning. He was explaining how his dad had come running in and just unplugged the vacuum, when they turned the corner and Stiles came to an abrupt halt in front of the display of dusters. His face flushed bright red.

 

“Do you need anything else for the office?” Derek asked, wondering if he was just too embarrassed to speak up. Though, judging by the amount of merchandise in the cart, he didn’t seem to have too much of a problem with that. Derek reached out and grabbed one of the old-fashioned dusters - the kind that had actual feathers - and Stiles squeaked.

 

“Mops!” he said, turning away and tripping down the aisle.

 

They browsed for mops for a lot longer than Derek would have thought possible, as Stiles checked out all the features and fiddled with each one. Then he made Derek sniff some of the organic cleaning products to test for werewolf sensibilities. He laughed when Derek sneezed five times in a row after sniffing one that was supposed to smell like linen, but in fact smelled like chemicals and wet yak.

 

They were almost to the checkout lanes when Stiles made another unplanned detour, gasping as he ran up to a T-shirt display. In under a minute, he had several shirts of various sizes and colors - all with the distinctive Superman _“S”_ on the chest - and was holding them up in front of Derek. Stiles’ spiky head lolled right and then left and he deliberated over each one. Finally, he tossed one of the silver-on-black tees in medium in the cart, followed by a heather green one with the classic red and yellow symbol. That one was an extra large.

 

“Stiles-”

 

“One to wear outside and one to sleep in, dude,” he explained, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Derek just gave a long-suffering sigh and got out his credit card.

 

Everything fit in the Camero once they got the mops and the new broom angled right. They swung past Hale Industries and hauled half of the purchases up to the janitor’s closet. The rest they lugged up to Derek’s apartment. Even though Derek had taken all the heavy bags, Stiles still needed to flop down on the couch to pant and recuperate.

 

Derek grit his teeth. In just one weekend, he’d gone from trying to avoid getting too dependent on sleeping at the office, where Stiles’ scent lingered, to having his apartment and car drenched with Stiles. There was only the bedroom left.

 

He could do this.

 

This would all be okay.

 

Stiles’ head dropped back on the sofa cushion, his long neck stretched out, and smiled up at Derek, his cheeks flushed from carrying everything up the steps, his hair slightly damp with sweat. His skin was brushing the arm of the couch where Derek’s head had been only a few nights ago, merging their scents together, getting Derek’s scent on him…

 

Derek swallowed. He swallowed again. His breathing felt labored, his pulse thundering, and Stiles kept smiling up at him, unaware. Vulnerable. Trusting. Derek’s hands clenched tight around sharpening claws, his breath coming harder, faster, inhaling the waves of warm scent coming off the boy splayed out before him.

 

Their eyes met, and Stiles’ gaze opened wide, sensing the danger at last, Derek assumed, watching Stiles’ pink tongue flash as he nervously licked his lips. Derek’s eyes snapped to the motion, his talons threatening to pierce the skin of his palms. His glance shot back up and locked on Stiles’ amber eyes, and he felt himself just about to move forward when there was a scream from out in the hallway.

 

“Derek!” the voice hollered. “Let me in! My hands are full!”

 

Derek came to himself with a jerk, tearing his covetous eyes away from Stiles and swinging to face the door. He staggered over to it, somehow managing to keep upright, and wrenched it open.

 

“Derek!” Laura squealed. She plowed into him, though she was loaded down with plastic bags. He threw his arms around her instinctively while she nuzzled in, cuddling and jostling and elbowing him all at once. The smell of her was so welcome, so _pack,_ that tears sprang to his eyes. By the way she was nuzzling into him, he guessed that she felt the same. “Peter was right! You _are_ home!”

 

“Trip was canceled,” Derek managed, his voice gruff as he pulled back and wiped quickly at his eyes.

 

“Canceled?” she asked, her brow scrunching up. “But Peter said that you-”

 

“This is Stiles,” Derek said quickly. “Stiles, this is my sister, Laura.”

 

The boy on the couch gave an awkward wave and Laura stared at him. Then she breathed in, her head tilting back and her eyes going a bit glassy.

 

“Oh my god, that’s _you,”_ she said. She looked back at Derek. “His scent-”

 

“I know.”

 

“Peter wasn’t exaggerating. For once. God Derek, it’s-”

 

“I _know,_ Laura.” Derek made his ‘please be cool’ face at her, and she pulled herself together enough to go over to where Stiles was now standing and gaping by the coffee table, to greet him properly.

 

“It’s good to meet you, Stiles,” she said, all friendly with just the barest hint of predator. She reached out to shake the boy’s hand, but at the subsonic growl from Derek, she turned it into a wave instead. “I bought pastries,” she confessed and, simple as that, Stiles smiled at her and helped her get everything into the kitchen, both of them talking a mile a minute. Derek trailed behind, a bag of cleaning supplies in one hand and a brand new mop in the other.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles = Wolfnip


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for taking forever! But this chapter is extra long to make up for it.

 

Laura Hale was really, really nice. And funny. And sarcastic. And pretty. Really pretty. Maybe not quite as pretty as her brother, but hey, that’s a standard no one, not even other Hales, should be held accountable to.

 

Stiles chatted with her in the kitchen while rummaging around in the pastry boxes for apple turnovers and cream cheese danishes. It was lunchtime, but Laura just waved her hand in the air dismissively. “Bread and cheese,” she said, holding up a danish. “It’s practically a sandwich.”

 

Stiles giggled and turned to make some coffee, remembering Derek’s routine from that morning. He thought that he could get the coffee going in the fancy carafe without too much sputtering or twirling in a circle. From where he stood, carefully out of the way of the two boisterous creatures invading his kitchen, Derek tossed Stiles the new filters just as he needed them. Now that was grade-A teamwork. Stiles held his hand up for a high-five and Derek just stared at him, suddenly going stock-still, his crazy-amazing eyes getting all huge.

 

Contact, right, shit. He dropped his hand and turned back to the coffee maker. Stiles kept forgetting about the germaphobic thing. Derek didn’t use tissues to open door handles or make people take off their shoes at the door, so the fact that Derek was, uh, _special,_ kept slipping Stiles’ mind. It seemed to mostly be about physical contact. But, he’d just hugged Laura for like, a full minute at the door. She was family, though. And a werewolf. So maybe it was just humans. Maybe it was just _Stiles._ Hadn’t Laura said something about the way he smelled? And then she hadn’t shook his hand either.

 

When Stiles turned to the cupboard to get down the coffee mugs, he surreptitiously sniffed his fingers. Dial soap. Coffee. Fabric softener from his shirt (sorry Scott, but he had to have soft clothes, and he hadn’t found a scent-free fabric softener that worked as good as his normal stuff). His hand smelt non-offensive to him, but who knew what a werewolf could pick up.

 

His late-night, were-knot fantasies took on a new significance and he felt his neck burning red, wondering if the two gorgeous Hale siblings could scent out where his hands has been last night. He touched the mugs gingerly, by the handles only, suddenly super self-conscious. It didn’t help matters any when he glanced over his shoulder and caught Derek and Laura in the middle of a frantic eyebrow conversation, Laura gesturing emphatically in Stiles’ direction, while Derek shook his head and bared his teeth at his sister. His pointy teeth. Fangs in fact. Those were Derek’s fangs right there. And that should not have caused the bolt of lightning to his dick that it did. Like he’d seen the man naked and not just his pointy incisors.

 

They both looked at him when he gave an involuntary gasp. Laura shot Derek an _‘I told you so’_ look, before coming over to help Stiles pour the coffee. Derek’s teeth looked human again, though Stiles was stuck staring stupidly at his mouth, like he was waiting for it to do another trick.

 

Laura, thank god, broke the moment before Stiles could do something ridiculously stupid, like walking over to Derek and sticking his fingers in his mouth. Catching sight of the Superman mug Stiles had just set down on the counter, she clutched her hands over her heart and let out a high-pitched squee of delight.

 

“Oh my god, Derek! You still have these? I _love_ these mugs. Oh, you have all of them… wait, where’s Robin?”

 

“At the office,” Stiles said, before his brain could properly engage. Both wolves looked at him curiously. “I spilled coffee on you, remember?” he said to Derek, who was still standing awkwardly in his own kitchen, like he had gotten caught in a game of freeze-tag. “Then I washed Robin and, hey, I love DC  so, I remember that he’s… I mean _it’s_ … the mug is in your office. Or it was the last time I saw it. Didn’t get a chance to do your desk last time. Sorry about that. Please don’t fire me.” Stiles squirmed in place. Laura took pity on him, reaching out and grabbing the full Superman cup from his hand to pass to Derek, which he took in both hands like it might explode.

 

Laura, Stiles decided, was his new favorite, Scott be damned. She maneuvered them effortlessly after that, making up for both Stiles’ and Derek’s awkwardness, filling in the gaps with her own chatter, until they were finally sitting in the bright living room, eating pastries and sipping coffee in the early afternoon sunlight.

 

She asked them how the day had gone so far, and Stiles filled her in on their trip to Target, gesturing to the bags heaped near the door. He was super excited about the haul, even if it was just cleaning stuff. Derek had bought everything he’d suggested. It was like a Lysol and Clorox Christmas. Laura’s eyes flicked to Derek as Stiles talked about all the stuff that had made it into the cart, a smirk crawling over her face when Derek crossed his arms defensively.

 

Once all the pastries had been consumed, Stiles huffed a contented sigh and stood up. “Better get all this stuff put away.”

 

“Let me help you with that,” Laura said graciously. Before she made it over to where he was rummaging through the plastic bags, however, her head snapped over to Derek and she rolled her eyes. A tingle, something hovering just at the edge of his perception, rippled through Stiles’ chest. It had happened once before, when Laura had greeted him. Stiles wasn’t sure what it was exactly, but it caused Laura to change course and head for the coffee table instead. “Actually, I’ll do the dishes while you get that stuff sorted, Stiles,” she said, piling the plates and forks together.

 

“Okay,” he responded, gathering up the bags. He looked around for the mop, realizing that Derek must have already carried some things to the hall closet. Sure enough, he opened the door to find half the haul stacked neatly onto the stainless steel shelves and his new awesome mop propped in the corner. It only took him a few minutes to get everything else organized, and then he spent another few minutes admiring the stacks of colorful sponges and new towels before shutting the door and going in search of the werewolves.

 

Laura was alone in the kitchen, doing the dishes. Stiles started wiping down the countertop she had cleared, and they fell into a discussion about her time in Bosnia and her plans to find a place in the same apartment complex as Derek.

 

“Is that a sibling thing, or a pack thing?” Stiles asked, before he could think better of it. Way to bring up her brothers and sisters, all of whom were dead except Broody McMuffin. Real nice, Stiles.

 

Thankfully, Laura just chuckled. “A bit of both?” she replied, rattling the silverware as she added a few forks to the dishwasher. “I mean, I don’t mind staying with Peter for a few weeks, but to be honest, I’ve always liked Derek beter.”

 

Stiles snorted and rolled his eyes, trying to convey _‘any sane person would’_ without insulting Laura’s uncle to her face. She was smiling though, giving him a look out of the corner of her eye. Stiles was replacing Scott. Laura was his new werewolf-best-friend-for-life. She was actually nice to him. And really easy on the eyes.

 

They finished the dishes and made their way back into the living room in search of Derek. He was standing by the open window, looking at his phone. When he saw them, he caught Laura’s eye and then wiggled his phone for a second, before typing away with his thumbs. Laura went to her purse and dug out her cell, taking a second to read her messages.

 

Stiles looked around the room, realizing that Derek must have cleaned up while he and Laura were in the kitchen. The suitcase was gone, along with the rest of the trash Stiles hadn’t gotten to yet. The rug would need vacuuming, but otherwise the place looked pretty good. He felt oddly disappointed. No need to organize Derek’s underwear back into his drawers for him. Dammit.

 

Laura gave a gasp of excitement and Derek responded with a warning sound, but Laura ignored him and turned her beaming face toward Stiles. “You’re having dinner with us,” she proclaimed. Derek shot her a death glare.

 

“Um,” Stiles said, watching Derek nervously. It was obvious that he wasn’t keen on the idea. He tried not to feel hurt. “That’s alright. You two go ahead and catch up. I don’t want to intrude...”

 

“Peter is taking us out,” Laura continued, ignoring him completely. “He says to show up around 7. Here, I’ll text you the details.” There was that weird, tingling hum at the edge of his mind again. What was that? Laura seemed to notice it too, shooting a look at her brother. “Give me your number, Stiles, and I’ll include you in a _group_ text with Derek so you both show up at the right place.”

 

Once he had the text (and Derek’s cell phone number, dear god) he took off for his own apartment. He’d agreed to go to dinner, even if it did mean seeing creepy ‘Uncle Peter’, but he still had stuff he needed to get done. Like laundry. And homework. And jerking off to the memory of a shirtless Derek Hale and then bleaching his entire body so none of the wolves could smell anything incriminating on him.

 

So naturally, the first thing he did when he got home was flop on the couch and dig out his phone and go straight to the dating site.

 

_Hey baby. You’re so hot. You wanna try knotting, you sweet little thing? I’ll let you ride mine all day…_

 

“Stiles?”

 

“Gwha!” He grabbed his phone before he dropped it, holding it to his chest so that Scott couldn’t read the message. “Dude, stop using your stealth powers for evil!”

 

“Your heart rate was really picking up and I was worried that maybe you were… oh. _Oh._ Are you on _that_ site again? Gross, man!”

 

“Hey! What I do during my private time is none of your business! I can’t help it that you can hear my heartbeat!”

 

“Just… stop being all excited about that werewolf sex stuff, okay? It’s weird.”

 

“It’s perfectly normal to explore my sexuality. Lydia said so.” Stiles crossed one leg over the other, adjusting himself on the couch, trying to look natural doing it.

 

“I can smell how turned on you are, you know,” Scott said, his nose wrinkling up.

 

“Then leave! Let me read my emails in peace.”

 

 _“Please_ tell me you aren’t thinking about hooking up with one of the guys from that SUPERNATURAL dating site.”

 

“It’s a _queer_ site, okay?” Stiles said, twirling his hand in the air out of sheer frustration. Scott really was the worst. “Some of the guys are NAT’s, but mostly it’s just us boring humans.”

 

“Okay, but you know that’s the site where all the wolves go to look for human hook-ups, right?”

 

“Oh my god, Scott, have you-”

 

“No! God no, not me, dude. First, I’m straight. Like, _straight_ straight. Not even a little bit interested in creatures lacking boobs.” Stiles opened his mouth to comment. “AND vaginas,” Scott added, and Stiles mouth clicked shut. “But I know because that’s where Peter goes to look for guys.”

 

Stiles’ mouth fell back open. _“What?”_

 

“Well, yeah. I mean, why do you think the entire werewolf population of California is trying to get in your pants? Peter likes to, uh, brag about knowing you. Maybe. A little bit.” Scott paused to allow Stiles to speak, but words were beyond Stiles at the moment. “I mean, dude, I did warn you that you were his type.”

 

“What? Tall, trim, devastatingly attractive?’

 

“A Spark.”

 

“Say what, now?”

 

“A Spark. Dude, Peter totally already told you that you had the gift.”

 

“I thought he was just hitting on me!”

 

‘Well, yeah, that too,” Scott agreed, hanging his head. “Sorry for that, again, by the way.”

 

“Not forgiven.” Stiles stood up to pace, the situation in his pants having given up as soon as Peter was mentioned. That was one knot Stiles was pretty sure he didn’t want to ride. “Am I really a Spark?’ he asked, somewhat hopefully.

 

Scott leaned in and inhaled, as if just double checking for form’s sake. “Yup,” he said. “You smell like magic.”

 

“Magic has a smell?”

 

“Sort of like… autumn leaves… but also like fire? Like a bonfire, a little bit? Only NATs smell like that. And human NATs, like Sparks, also have this sorta, I dunno, other smell to them. It’s kinda good, actually. Like you’re wearing magic-scented cologne.” Scott shrugged.

 

“And you just neglected to tell me because…?”

 

“Uh… I was preoccupied? With, like, transforming into a totally different creature?”

 

Scott really was the worst. Stiles flopped back on the couch again. “So, I’m, what? The most eligible human batchelor on the West Coast all of a sudden?” That sounded pretty cool actually. He would have lots of opportunity to try out his newly discovered, huge kink for all things Der... uh, werewolf. He meant werewolf. “Wait, so I smell good to NATs?” Stiles asked.

 

Scott shrugged again. “I mean, I guess. Peter obviously likes it.” Stiles made an _‘ew’_ face at him. “I think you smell kinda nice, but like, normal too. Like a cabin, or something.”

 

“Like a cabin.” Stiles stared at him. “Did you just say I remind you of an old, musty cabin?”

 

Scott was already half distracted by his phone. “I mean, sorta. It’s not bad. Sorta familiar, I guess. I dunno.” He began playing a game, tapping the screen repeatedly.

 

“That’s weird,” Stiles said, now obviously talking to himself as Scott checked out entirely. “Cause the other two Hales don’t seem to find my odeur de Cabin Musk appealing in the slightest. Does the smell of magic turn off some NATs? Scott? Scott!” The shaggy head of his best friend popped up and he looked at him questioningly. “Am I gross to werewolves? Am I ever going to meet a nice wolf, who isn’t Peter Hale, that wants this?” He waved his his hands over himself, looking at Scott with what he hoped were big, soulful eyes.

 

“Well, the site will probably get you some dates if you really want, but seriously, man. Don’t date any of Peter’s friends. After reading your kinks list, they all want to-”

 

“Oh god!” Stiles moaned, remembering. “I put all my kinks on that damn site! Everyone knows that I wanna try all that werewolf stuff.” His best friend made a repulsed face and attempted to escape. Stiles caught him by the T-shirt. “Scott! I’m not even officially out to my dad! I mean, he might know anyway. Probably knows, actually. But _still.”_

 

“You can come out to him when you visit, man. No big deal,” Scott said, standing bravely still while Stiles clutched at him, though he could have easily gotten away from him now.

 

“Oh, no big deal, Scott? _No big deal?_ Maybe while we’re visiting family and sharing secrets, you can let your mom know that you joined the Monster Mash, huh? _‘Hi. Mom. No need to worry about my asthma any more. I’m a creature of the night. So, can I use the washing machine?’”_

 

“Okay, okay,” Scott said, giving up. He sank onto the couch next to Stiles to join him in his sulk. A bag of tortilla chips appeared a moment later and they crunched along to the sound of the TV, both lost in thought.

 

Stiles was pretty sure that Scott didn’t realize that, while they sat there together, he occasionally leaned over and brushed his hand along Stiles’ arm. Scenting him, Stiles knew. It was weird. And also _not_ weird at the same time. He belonged to Scott. That’s how the wolf saw it. Just marking what was his, idly, distractedly. It felt kinda… nice, in a way. Like his friend thought that he was worth protecting. Even if he was terrible at it in reality. Scott still had that instinct to let others know that Stiles had someone in his corner when the going got tough.

 

Wolves weren’t all that bad.

 

***

 

Wolves fricken sucked balls.

 

“Come here, sit by me, Stiles,” Peter said with a smirk, patting the bench next to his jean-clad thigh. Derek hadn’t shown up yet, and Laura had passed him in the hallway, headed for the restroom.

 

“That’s okay, man, I’m sure your niece missed you,” Stiles said, trying not to grimace. “Don’t want to take her seat.” he couldn’t bring himself to say “the seat of honor.” Was it an honor to sit by the Alpha? He didn’t even know. Scott was not teaching him any important werewolf etiquette.

 

He slid into the booth across from Peter, moving his feet away when he realized how close they were to the other man’s. The Alpha pouted, but otherwise behaved himself. Stiles slipped his jacket off and wadded it up between himself and the wall, then picked up the menu and studied it intently.

 

“Everything here tastes like grease, so it really doesn’t matter what you order,” Peter said, his smile like oil slick over the top of Stiles’ menu. He bristled. This was one of the best ma-and-pa diners in the area. Stiles rather liked it here. Now he decided _really_ liked it. He had to on principle. If Peter hated it, there must be something wholesome and delightful about the place.

 

“If it’s so gross, why’d you pick it?” Stiles asked.

 

“The kids like it,” Peter said. It took a moment for Stiles to realize that he was referring to Laura and Derek. “Reminds them of better times, I think. I always bring them here when I want to cheer them up.”

 

“Oh, and they need cheering up, do they?” Stiles asked, putting more sass into the comment than he really felt. Derek and Laura deserved happiness, dammit, and if greasy hamburgers is what did it for them, then Jesus bloody Christ, they were getting some greasy burgers.

 

“Well, Laura is already over the moon that her brother is sticking around,” Peter said, treating Stiles’ flippant remark like a real question, the bastard. “So really, this is just a ‘welcome home’ for her. But Derek, poor lad, is the one that needs cheering up.”

 

Stiles kept his eyes firmly on the menu, refusing to rise to the bait. Was it bait? Could Peter tell how much the mere mention of Derek’s name got Stiles’ blood pressure rising?

 

He settled for a noncommittal grunt instead. Peter took that for encouragement and carried on.

 

“Derek hasn’t had the best start to his adulthood, as I’m sure you’re already aware. He’s been isolated in his grief for far too long. It’s true, he was always the sweet, shy one, but frankly, he’s turned into somewhat of a recluse.” Peter idly unfolded his paper napkin from around his silverware, settling the white square carefully in his lap. “I honestly doubt he’d leave his apartment if it wasn’t for Hale Industries.”

 

Stiles caught himself leaning forward, listening intently to every word. _Dammit._ How did Peter do that? The older wolf smirked at him suddenly, reaching across the table, nearly touching Stiles’ wrist - the same wrist he’d nearly bitten when they’d first met - his fingertips barely brushing the hairs on Stiles’ arm.

 

Stiles froze, caught in Peter’s snake-like charm, the blue eyes seeming dark, intent. “You have the gift, Stiles. You shouldn’t waste it.” There was a tense moment between them - Peter trying to communicate something without words - and then Laura was back, sliding in next to Peter, and the moment was broken.

 

Derek turned up a moment later, looking a bit dismayed that he was the last one to arrive. He glanced between his sister, uncle and Stiles, eyeing the empty space next to Stiles like it had insulted him. Right. Cause, smelly, germ-ridden human.

 

“Uh, I can trade seats with Laura, if you’d rather-”

 

Derek was in the booth next to him before he could finish, and Stiles blinked at the suddenly close side of Derek’s face. Oh god. He smelled really really good. What was that? Jesus, that was _nice._ Was that the magic smell Scott was talking about? It was a bit like fire, but also like… cypress… pine sap… all mixed with a musky sweetness that Stiles just wanted to suck into his mouth, wanted to lap up with his tongue for hours and-

 

And all three wolves were suddenly staring at him.

 

“Oh, uh, sorry. What?”

 

“The waitress asked if you wanted something to drink,” Peter replied, smirking. Laura was doing her best to hide a giggle behind her hand. Derek… Derek looked shell-shocked, as was usual in Stiles’ presence, apparently.

 

Waitress? Oh, there she was.

 

“You thirsty there, Stiles?” Laura asked, unable to keep a straight face. She gave a small yelp as Derek kicked her under the table, then dissolved into laughter.

 

“A Coke, please,” Stiles mumbled, unable to look at any of them.

 

The drinks arrived. The food arrived. Stiles talked, mostly to Laura, and Laura talked _a lot,_ telling stories of her time away. Peter asked her a bunch of questions and smiled fondly at her when he thought no one was looking. It all blurred together in a nice, neat, _normal_ package. Stiles drank Coke and ate french fries, trying and failing not to watch Derek inhale his food like he’d never have the chance to eat a cheeseburger again. He even ate the pickle. Did werewolves like pickles? That seemed weird. Dogs didn’t like pickles, did they? Stiles wasn’t sure…

 

He realized, with a start, that Peter had paid the bill and everyone was getting to their feet. He went to grab for his coat the exact same moment Peter knocked the rest of his root beer over, the sudden flood of brown, sticky liquid pouring liberally all over Stiles’ jacket. It was a thick, soft coat, more of a glorified hoodie than a jacket, and it soaked up the soda like a sponge.

 

“Oh Stiles, I’m so sorry,” Peter said, not sounding sorry at all. He motioned a server over, and they brought rags and napkins to soak up the worst of it. After a few minutes of patient blotting, the server gave up and went to get a plastic to-go bag for the sopping fabric. Stiles sighed as he accepted the bag, wondering if the coat was ruined or if he could get it clean in the washing machine.

 

Then there was the entirely separate question of how he was going to survive the ride home in a T-shirt and flannel. And oh look, was that rain? Yep, that was rain. It was raining. Cold, miserable, northern California rain. Perfect.

 

They walked out together, pausing in the entryway so that the wolves could all slip on their toasty warm coats. The NAT jerks probably didn’t even need them. Stiles may have whined. Just a tiny bit.

 

“Stiles, here,” Peter said, slipping off his expensive-looking shearling coat. “It’s my fault you don’t have a jacket to wear home.” He was reaching out to sling it over Stiles’ shoulders, when that barely-there rumble tingled at Stiles’ awareness. If he didn’t know any better, he would have sworn that it was his magic - his _Spark_ \- picking up on it and trying to communicate it to him. Then a heavenly scent enveloped him, followed by a warm weight. Stiles looked up just as Derek stepped back, lightning fast, his worn leather jacket settling across Stiles’ shoulders.

 

Peter smirked, slipping his own jacket back on and giving a small shrug, a mockery of disappointment. Stiles would have narrowed his eyes at the Alpha, but he was too occupied with not snorting in Derek’s scent like a dying man. Stiles could make love to this scent. Forget that, Stiles could worship at the feet of Derek’s scent. It was like cologne, yet not. It was richer, built up. it didn’t have a sprayed-on quality. It had a worn-in quality. God, would Derek smell like this if Stiles was to nuzzle into his bare skin? He had always thought the wolf smelled good, but being in the office was _nothing_ compared to wearing his jacket.

 

“Stiles?” Laura asked, her pretty face swimming into view. “You with us there, buddy?”

 

“Oh, um, yeah. Sorry. I uh. Yes?”

 

She was smiling at him, rather too kindly now. “Poor baby,” she murmured, then, “So I’ll see more of you, right? I mean, you clean for Derek, what? Twice a week?”

 

“Oh, well I’m at the office every night…”

 

“No, I mean his apartment. What’s your schedule? Wednesdays and Sundays?”

 

“Uh-”

 

“Just the weekends, I think. Right, Stiles?” Peter asked. “Oh, before I forget, I wanted to give you this. It’s just a loan, mind you, I want it back in mint condition.” Peter pulled a small book out of his deep jacket pocket, handing it over with a flourish. _The Forest, the Fairies, and You: A Modern Spark’s Guide to Earth Magic._

 

Stiles snapped it up. Oh, he was going to devour this tonight. While wearing Derek’s jacket. And no one was going to stop him, on pain of being cursed… or something. The book would tell him. His new friend, Magic McBookerson, already had a place of honor in Stiles’ heart.

 

“Right, the weekends,” Stiles agreed amicably, half forgetting what they were talking about as a little frizzle of magic snaked up his palm and wrapped around his wrist where he held the book.

 

He may have seen Derek go a bit pale, though that could also have been the light changing as they walked outside, into the rain. Everyone scattered except Derek; Peter and Laura making for their cars while Stiles headed for his Jeep, backwards, calling out to Derek as he stumbled through the parking lot. “Thanks for lending me the jacket! I’ll bring it back! I’ll text you about it!”

 

Stiles tripped into his Jeep and got the engine started. He tried not to look too hard at the very beautiful man still standing next to his car watching after him, not seeming to care as he got cold rain drops caught in his eyelashes.

 

***

 

A month later found Stiles in Derek’s kitchen, staring really hard at the mop. He glared at it until his head hurt. It stayed motionless. It seemed to be staring back at him, tauntingly.

 

“Urrrhh, what am I doing _wrong?”_ he whined at the stack of clean dishes next to the sink. There had only been a few from Derek’s breakfast that morning, so he had elected to do them by hand. It had nothing to do with how he smiled while washing the Superman mug, thinking of Derek drinking his coffee. Potentially in his underwear.

 

Okay, that wasn’t helping.

 

No matter how many times he’d read the Modern Spark book, or the half dozen others he’d weaseled out of Peter over the last few weeks, he still couldn’t affect anything in the physical world. Sure, his understanding of SUPERNATURALS had improved leaps and bounds, and things about Scott made a bunch more sense now. He could just barely catch some of the subsonic communication going on in the pack, though it was still vague. He honestly just needed a lot more practice. Which meant that he needed to spend a lot more time with NATs.

 

Laura was a godsend. She was patient and talkative, two of Stiles’ favorite qualities in a friend. He would hang out with her and some of the pack members after the meetings at Peter’s place, listening to the undercurrents of magic twinning between them. He found that he could sense the coming of their shifts, and even pick up on scent cues that he hadn’t noticed before. Because Scott was right. Magic had a smell.

 

Now that he knew about his ability, he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why he’d thought he was a basic, normal (more or less) human being for twenty plus years. Suddenly, his fidgeting made sense. His wandering thoughts were the product of a mind easily bored with the everyday, mundane world. He longed to reach out and _learn,_ to study everything there was to know about magic and monsters; all the things he’d always been drawn to but never had an outlet for.

 

It even explained his attraction to, uh, well, _unusual_ potential bed partners. He had come to realize that, though he’d found others attractive, he’d never _really_ known what sexual attraction was like until Der-... _NATs._ He meant NATs. As a species. Well, a collection of species. In all their wondrous weirdness and variety.

 

And the mating habits, good _god._ That had been the second week of _“Stiles’ gloriously confused crash-course in all things magic.”_ Peter had smirked more than usual handing over the thick, red book. Stiles had known it was about NAT interactions and behaviors, but he hadn’t known that it was practically the occult version of the Kama Sutra.

 

The information in that book completely shattered Stiles perception of werewolves as being a promiscuous bunch of savages when it came to sex. In fact, he couldn’t read the messages from the dating site the same way anymore, because the book explained their behavior very differently. Wolves could have one night stands, sure, but it took a lot more effort on their part, apparently, because they ran the very real risk of bonding with their sexual partner. The book had said that it didn’t always happen, but if the wolf-half of the werewolf thought it had found a good potential mate, then the wolf would try and claim the person.

 

It made the messages Stiles received, like _“I want to possess you,”_ and _“I wanna tie you up on my knot and never let you go,”_ take on a much weightier tone. Up until he’d read that book, Stiles had thought it was just harmless flirting.

 

He thought back to the glazed look on Peter’s face as he’d drifted closer and closer to biting Stiles’ wrist. He remembered thinking that the man had looked drunk. Now it made a lot more sense and, for the first time, Stile realized just how much danger he’d been in, trapped alone with an Alpha who thought he smelled good. He had to give Peter some begrudging respect for letting him go without further incident. The book said that the instinct to claim could be _strong._ Unbearably so. Some wolves would even pine and die without their mates.

 

A small shiver ran down his spine when he’d read that. His magic stirring, poking him with little tingly fingers. He couldn’t communicate clearly with his magic yet, but it was getting stronger. He knew now when it was trying to get his attention.

 

In fact, it was chirping at him, right this second, as he stood in Derek’s kitchen and tried to get the mop to move like in _Sword in the Stone,_ so that he could mop the floor with magic (anyone who called him Mary Poppins to his face was dead meat, _Scott)._ His spine tingled, and a feeling like static-charged feather tips running down the back of his neck got his attention. He hoped it meant that the magic approved of his self-propelled mop idea, but then he realized that it was tugging at him, trying to push him down the hallway.

 

Derek was home. Stiles knew this because he’d greeted him at the door, just like always, standing near the window. He’d been on the phone with Laura, talking about something she was trying to email to him. He had been a bit more flustered than usual, quickly getting off the phone with her.

 

He’d left Stiles to it as he usually did, retreating back to his bedroom, where Stiles assumed he must keep his computer. Every time Stiles was in the apartment, Derek, disappeared into his room. Stiles tried not to be disappointed. The man worked a lot. There was that big business trip that had fallen through last month. He was probably still catching up with all of that stuff.

 

This time, though, something felt… off. His magic was unsettled, swirling around and active, but not in a _“let’s learn how to do housework”_ sort of a way. It was more of a _“Something’s wrong and we need to fix it,”_ type of feeling.

 

Before he knew it, he was in front of Derek’s bedroom door. Now what? What excuse could he make? “Sorry, Derek, but my magic wanted me to come check on you” sounded really weird, even to him.

 

Invisible fingers gave him a nudge to the back of his head, rather hard. He sighed, and knocked on the door. Nothing. Complete stillness. But then… something… non-human. A word? A _sob?_

 

Stiles opened the door and stepped into Derek’s bedroom for the first time. The wolf wasn’t at the desk near the window. Instead, he was twisted up in his sheets in bed, his hands over his face, a tablet lying near the pillow. A cheerful little girl was staring out from the screen, her hair lit up with late afternoon sunlight. She had green-gray-hazel eyes like Derek’s. His sister, Cora, when she was about six, Stiles guessed. The one the Robin mug belonged to. Derek had told him that Cora had made him take the Superman one, even though he’d thought that it should go to their dad. But she had been insistent that it was Derek’s.

 

Stiles stood and watched him, powerless to do anything, to make the hurt go away. He knew that it didn’t, not really. It might fade for a bit, only to flare up, fresh and hot and just as new and open as it was the first time around. The loss. So he understood there was nothing he could do but maybe keep Derek company until the pain receded enough for him to remember that he was still alive. Alive. And breathing. And real.

 

Derek stirred then, a faint whine coming from him, and the sound broke Stiles’ heart. It was a sound that wanted to be comforted, needed to be reassured. All Stiles wanted in that moment was to crawl into bed and wrap Derek up in his arms. He wanted to pet him and soothe him, to whisper soft things in his ear until they could both breathe again.

 

He made a movement toward the bed but stopped when he saw Derek go tense, his nostrils flaring. His lips parted as he scented the air in short, gasping lungfuls, his arm slipping from over his eyes as his gaze focused slowly on Stiles.

 

“You’re in my room.” His voice was scratchy with emotion, raw from grief.

 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said quickly. “I’m sorry Derek, I-”

 

“Why are you in my room?” His voice was gaining strength, but it still sounded like it was scraping out of his throat. He was moving, shifting until he was free of the binding sheets, the tablet now dark, shoved under a pillow. He rose up to his full height, his impressive body making him appear larger than he was. “Stiles,” he croaked, almost soft, almost fond. Stiles’ heart hurt. He’d never seen anyone this vulnerable before. Only his dad, right after they’d lost Stiles’ mom. That look of strength and fragility, mixed up and given human form. Grief. Mourning. Loss.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “That… that was Cora, wasn’t it?”

 

Derek looked at him with eyes that couldn’t cry anymore. Eyes that were all cried out.

 

“Yeah,” he rasped. “When she was younger. Laura just found some family photos. They were in a safety deposit box. She finally opened it and… There they were.” He had his arms crossed in front of himself. His usual pose when talking to Stiles. Though he seemed to be leaning in more than usual, breathing in deeply, calming down. Stiles watched as his shoulders visibly relaxed, his hands giving up their white-knuckled grip on his elbows.

 

They stood there for another minute, Derek pulling himself together, while Stiles struggled with so many competing thoughts he felt like his brain was going to catch fire.

 

Derek was looking soft and rumpled and damaged and so so beautiful that Stiles’ entire being ached to hold him. His smell was strong in here, cypress and heat, muddled into the blankets on the bed, worn into the clothes in the closet. God he smelled good. He smelled like… like… Stiles had no idea what. It was just good. And safe. And every wild fantasy.

 

Stiles swallowed.

 

“Okay, well, can I make you anything? Do you need coffee? Let me make you some coffee.” Stiles took off for the kitchen before he could bury his hands in Derek’s soft, mussed hair and pull him forward with a hand spread over the back of his strong neck.

 

Yeah, coffee. Better to be doing something useful. This was the kitchen, he’d made it to the kitchen. He thought he heard Derek’s steps in the hall, walking in stealth mode as usual, but this time Stiles _knew_ where he was. It was like watching something filmed in night vision. It wasn’t clear, but he could sense the movement, the placement of each bare foot.

 

The filters were in the cupboard to the left. The bag off coffee was still on the counter from the morning. The start button was the large one in the center of the machine.

 

Stiles went through the motions while his magic tracked Derek through the house, out into the living room by the window. Pause. Circling again. Coming down the hall to the kitchen. Getting closer.

 

The cream was in the fridge.

 

Closer.

 

There was sugar on the shelf, still in the bag.

 

The floorboards gave the slightest groan right outside the kitchen doorway.

 

The mugs-

 

Derek was there. Right there. Behind him. Silent and watching.

 

The mugs-

 

Stiles’ hands were trembling as the coffee pot gurgled away, blissful normal. Mundane.

 

What was happening to him? He was in a werewolf’s den. What the _hell_ was he doing here?

 

The mugs… Superman’s red cape as it slipped through his fingers, falling in slow motion. Wheeling over and over until it finally made contact with the floor and exploded into dozens of tiny shards.

 

Like Krypton, Stiles thought stupidly.

 

He could feel Derek moving. Not back to his bedroom, but outside, getting farther and farther away, until the thin cord of his fledgling magic stretched and snapped. Only then could he get a broom and dustpan and sweep up the red and blue pieces on the floor.

 

***

 

No matter how long Stiles stared at the mug fragments, he couldn’t make them fuse back together. They were lying in a pile on his and Scott’s kitchen table, where they’d been since Stiles had brought them home in a paper bag last Sunday.

 

He’d stuck around Derek’s apartment for another hour, but he hadn’t shown back up, so Stiles finally slunk away, mug fragments guilty tucked into his messenger bag. He’d borrowed a few spell books from Peter, but so far nothing he tried had worked. When he managed to shift the pieces around a few inches to the right and left, then in a little swirl, he hadn’t even been that excited. What good was his magic if he couldn’t even put a mug back together?

 

Derek hadn’t texted him. True, Derek didn’t often text him, but sometimes he did. Since the night with the jacket, Stiles would occasionally get a text from him. At first, it was just to tell Stiles to hang onto his jacket until the weekend rather than bring it to the office. The next one was to check to see if Stiles needed any more cleaning supplies for either the office or the apartment. Then there was the one letting Stiles know that he was ordering Chinese food for dinner, and did Stiles want him to order something for him too, since he’d be in the office that night cleaning anyway?

 

The one about the Chinese food had been last week. But that had been before Stiles had crashed into Derek’s bedroom, asked about his dead sister, and then smashed his mug on the floor.

 

Stiles didn’t blame him for not keeping in touch.

 

“You still trying to fix that thing?” Scott asked, breezing through on his way to a pack something-or-other.

 

“It’s harder than it looks!”

 

“Well, it looks impossible. Just buy him a new one.”

 

“His family _gave_ this to him. It’s sentimental. It’s meaningful. And I broke it. I’m an asshole, and I have to _fix it.”_

 

“He’d never know the difference.”

 

“It was part of a set.”

 

“That’s what eBay is for. Replace it next week and he’ll never even know.”

 

“He saw me break it.”

 

“Oh.” Scott shrugged. “Here, I saved you a cookie from that place in the mall.”

 

“Thanks man,” Stiles said, unwrapping it from the wax paper and shoving it in his mouth. He pretended not to notice the Scott-shaped bite missing from the edge.

 

Alone for the evening, done with cleaning Hale Industries (where, once again, the corner office had remained empty), Stiles opened his computer and pulled up eBay. Several failed searches later, Stiles found an antiques dealer in New York who had a vintage line of DC comic mugs. The Superman one was gorgeous, with a serial number painted on the bottom and signed by the artist. It wasn’t the sort of thing you actually drank coffee out of. More the sort of thing you put in a plexiglass case on your desk and asked people not to touch. But. It was. So. COOL.

 

Several hundred dollars and a few days later, Stiles had the mug in his hands, turning it over carefully and examining it from all sides. Would Derek like it? Would he even accept a gift from him?

 

Stiles wrapped the mug back up in its mountain of bubble wrap, stuffed it in his bag, pulled on his (new) hoodie-coat, and made his determined way to the Jeep. It was mid-morning on a Friday, and Stiles’ hastily conceived plan was to use his key to leave the mug for Derek as a surprise. That way, Derek wasn’t forced to talk to him if he still hated Stiles’ guts, but he hoped that the gift would at least earn him text or two.

 

Stiles unlocked the front door to Derek’s apartment and slipped inside. God, he had missed Derek’s smell. It had only been a week, but apparently he’d been jonesing for a hit. He pulled the mug out, carefully unwrapping it so that he could leave it displayed somewhere - he hadn’t decided where yet - when he realized he wasn’t alone.

 

He gripped the mug to his chest, watching in fascinated horror as Derek unfurled himself from the couch. He sat up slowly, the extra-large superman T-shirt twisted around his waist and his leather jacket slipping down the armrest from where he’d been using it as a pillow.

 

The same jacket that he’d loaned to Stiles.

 

Wait. Derek didn’t like the way he smelled. Why would he-

 

“Stiles?” His voice had that raspy quality to it, from sleep, this time. Not tears. It was a soft, nice sound.

 

“Hey Derek.” Should he be calling him Mr. Hale again? He sorta felt like he should. “I, uh. I got you a thing. I was going to leave it for you. I didn’t know you were home. Sorry. I can go-”

 

 _“No.”_ Derek cleared his throat. “No, I mean, at least show me what you got.”

 

Stiles didn’t move from the entryway. He didn’t take off his shoes. He figured he wouldn’t be there long enough. He held up the mug instead. Derek shuffled off the couch and stood up, seeming reluctant to leave the coat behind, his hand petting it for a moment, as if it was a movement he’d repeated often.

 

“I’m really, _really_ sorry I broke your mug.”

 

“It’s okay, Stiles. Accidents happen. It’s amazing they all lasted as long as they did.”

 

“But,” Stiles couldn’t stand Derek being so _nice_ about this. “They were your _family’s.”_

 

“It’s okay,” Derek reassured him, gently. With those _eyes._ And that’s too much. Stiles opened his mouth to protest, to scream, to cry. Something. “What’s that?” Derek asked, before Stiles could get a proper breath to say or do whatever fool thing he was just thinking.

 

“Superman. Mug. It’s not like the one I smashed all to hell, but it’s vintage and… cool?”

 

“You bought this for me?” Derek was looking at him with surprised eyes. He seemed different when he wasn’t wearing a suit. Stiles had thought that before. Every time he saw him in a soft T-shirt, he thought, wow. And then when he saw him in a suit at the office, it was wow again. Lots and lots of wows.

 

Derek got close to look at the mug. He didn’t reach out to take it. Just examined it in Stiles’ hands. He had a cowlick from the way he’d been sleeping, his soft hair swirled to the side in the front.

 

“You look a bit like him right now,” Stiles said, huffing a soft chuckle when Derek gave him an uncomprehending stare. “Superman. Well, Clark Kent transforming into Superman. You hair, it’s-” Stiles reached out to smooth it down, the way he would have done for Scott, but Derek froze, terrified, and then, once again, Stiles remembered. “I’m sorry,” he said, snatching his hand back. “I keep forgetting. I really don’t mean to make it worse.”

 

Derek was really looking worried now. “You mean…” he left it hanging there, obviously not wanting to finish the thought out loud. Stiles couldn’t blame him. It couldn’t be easy talking about his OCD with other people.

 

“Yeah. The, the no touching thing. You know, how you don’t like to be touched. Or have me touching your things. I try not to, you know. When I clean. I try not to touch things too much. I don’t know if that helps, but. I try.”

 

Derek’s eyes were huge. Stiles fiddled with the mug he was still holding, careful not to drop it in the process.

 

“I know this is like, a super awkward thing to ask,” Stile continued, afraid of the silence that was stretching out between them, “But is it all humans? That like, you know. Smell bad to you? Or uh. Is it only…” Stiles pointed to himself, his eyes skittering away to the far corner of the living room.

 

“What?”

 

Stiles would have rubbed his face with his hands but. Mug. “I’m sorry if I smell bad to you,” he muttered, like a small child being made to apologize. He just wanted to get this over with. He should have never brought it up. What was he expecting? Derek to lie and say, “Actually Stiles, you smell just fine for a disgusting human”...?

 

“Why would you think that?” Derek seemed horrified now. Well, that was better than disgusted, right? _Right?_

 

“Well, I mean, Laura said something about my scent, and you don’t like me too near you, and you never want me to touch you, and wolves are really sensitive to smells, and just because you smell amazing to me doesn’t mean I smell good to you and-”

 

“I smell amazing to you?”

 

“Oh god. Derek. You smell divine.” Fuck. Did he just say that out loud? “I’m sorry, but there’s something about you that’s like truth serum, and I can’t seem to filter what I’m saying at the moment, so I’m just going to go with that, yeah. Sorry, look I’ll just leave and… _Oh my god!”_

 

Derek had gone from staring him straight in the eyes, to looking up at him from the floor. Where he had just dropped to his knees. Half whining and half moaning, Derek leaned forward and pressed his nose into the join of Stiles’ thigh and torso, his jaw brushing against Stiles’ balls under his jeans. He grabbed Stiles’ thighs and pulled him closer, breathing in so deep and hard, that Stiles’ could feel the pull and release of his breath right through the heavy fabric.

 

“Oh my god!” Stiles said again, when Derek growled, actually fucking _growled,_ and pulled him even closer, switching to the other hip. He started to bite the tops of Stiles’ thighs, the coarse fabric of his jeans rubbing and digging into his skin.

 

It was all Stiles could do not to let go of the mug as Derek’s hands left his thighs, dropping him back to lean against the front door as his fingers dug for Stiles’ zipper.

 

Derek was trembling all over. When he pulled back and looked up at Stiles, his eyes gleamed gold. “Fuck,” Stiles proclaimed. When Derek still didn’t move, Stiles realized what he was asking. “Yes, Derek, god yes, _please.”_ That sounded an awful lot like begging because, well, it was. Stiles was going to die if Derek stopped. He wanted it all. All the things. All the things he’d never really wanted with normal, boring muggles, he wanted with Derek _._ He wanted Derek. All of him. Good and bad. _Christ,_ he wanted him so much.

 

Derek worked Stiles’ jeans and boxers down to his knees, which took all of two seconds. Gabbing him, he hoisted Stiles onto his shoulders, so that Derek’s head was in a harness made of Stiles’ thighs and jeans. He was still kneeling in the entryway, Stiles’ back crushed against the door, as he sat, reverse piggy-pack, with the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes on staring directly at his very naked crotch.

 

Stiles’ feet treaded air for a moment as Derek adjusted him to his liking, supporting him with the added security of broad hands on Stiles’ hips. Then the lick-kisses started, quick and desperate. Derek trying to touch all of Stiles’ bared skin with his lips and nose and tongue. Then Stiles was sliding into Derek’s mouth, hot, so hot, both literally and metaphorically, and Derek was groaning and holding him so tight, his eyes glowing yellow, mere slits of bliss. Growling and humming (growl-humming?), Derek French-kissed the head of Stiles’ cock. He looked drunk and impossibly happy, while Stiles flailed and screamed and maybe cried a little.

 

Somehow, Stiles held onto that damn mug. His only thoughts were, 1: Derek, and, 2: don’t you dare drop the fucking mug, Stiles.

 

It should have gone on forever. He wanted it to last forever and ever, amen. But, this was his first blow job and he was being held aloft on the shoulders of a god while being bound BDSM style in his own jeans. Also, Derek just… he smelled _so good._ It was getting stronger, richer, until he could taste it, and that had him losing his mind. “Fuck, Derek! Derek, oh my god, I’m coming! I’m coming I’m coming I’m coming-”

 

Stiles drifted back into his body a moment later, now on his back on the floor, still right in front of the door, his pants all the way off and the mug set to the side. _Thank Christ that stupid thing is safe,_ he thought, right before a very hot, very wet tongue started working feverishly on his inner thighs.

 

That felt nice. Soothing and warm. Comforting. It was sexy, but not too much. Just right for a post-orgasm comedown.

 

Derek must have swallowed and he’d missed it. He was so stupid. Why’d he have to close his eyes and miss that, just because coming that hard had almost killed him? Pitiful excuse.

 

“Uhgnnnuh!” well, now he knew what he sounded like when an incredibly sexy werewolf was brushing a wet finger over his hole. That made Stiles think of tongues. Rimming, Stiles recalled vaguely… he wanted to rim Derek. Really really bad. If only he had some strength in his limbs right now, he’d try it.

 

Derek’s face appeared over him, gazing down with such intensity, it stole Stiles’ breath. “Please,” Derek said. It was the most beautiful word ever, soft and broken. “Please Stiles.”

 

“Yes,” Stiles said, and Derek kissed him, gentle, reverent, before he folded Stiles in half and pushed his ramrod-hard cock between his wet thighs. “Fuck!” Stiles summed up. For just a second, he was devastated that Derek was using his legs instead of burying himself inside his body. But then he realized just how big the man was, hot and hard and _swelling_ where he rutted into the tight cleft he’d made, clamping Stiles’ legs together in one powerful arm, Stiles’ feet once again waving in the air, this time to one side of Derek’s head.

 

“Wanted you… so bad,” Derek muttered between thrusts. “Your scent.” He bent to lick a flat, velvet tongue up the side of Stiles’ throat. “Stiles,” he gasped. Then, “Stiles!” more strained, as he thrust harder and slower, nearly stopping as the hard knot at the base of his cock grew impossibly larger. _“Ah! Stiles!”_

 

Derek shaking apart and coming so hard it hit Stiles’ throat was the most religious experience of his life to-date.

 

Derek looked down at him with glowing eyes, shocked and desperate, staring at where he’d marked Stiles’ with his come, before lifting his own arm to his mouth, and biting down with fangs instead of blunt human teeth. Drops of his blood fell on Stiles’ collarbones and he arched back, baring his throat.

 

The werewolf made a keening, mournful sound, and moved down to lick at him, worshiping and cleaning him all in one go. “Stiles,” he murmured. “Stiles.”

 

They lay there for awhile, Derek still hard between his thighs, hunkered over him. Every few minutes, he would make a few tiny movements against him, enough to have Derek coming again, dripping more semen onto Stiles’ stomach.

 

As warm as Derek was, the floor was hard, cold, and unforgiving. After what seemed like Derek’s final orgasm, the knot finally softening in his thighs’ tight grasp, Stiles wiggled a bit and made a little noise of distress.

 

The world spun as he was lifted from the floor and into Derek’s arms. He wanted to tell Derek that he could walk, but he looked so concerned, taking care to carry him carefully into the bedroom, that Stiles let it go. It felt nice. And Derek was strong. It would be a sin not to appreciate it.

 

Once Derek had placed Stiles in the middle of the bed, he gathered all the blankets and pillows and surrounded Stiles, adjusting everything carefully before crawling in with him, eyes still glowing gold and fangs halfway dropped. The blood on his arm had dried, and the wound was already healed over. He should have looked terrifying. If Stiles was a self-respecting normal person, he would be screaming and trying to get away right now, not pulling the monster closer.

 

On the edge of sleep, his arms full of rumbling werewolf, he half recalled something he’d read in Peter’s magic sex book. Something about nesting. Something about what it meant to werewolves…

 

His magic was humming in his chest, and Derek was lazily rubbing his hands all over every bit of Stiles’ skin.

 

Wait… there was something important about making a den after sex…

 

Was Derek licking him? That would be a yes. It tickled a bit.

 

A wolf building a soft place for their… for their… something.

 

Too tired to think. Too blissed out to worry.

 

Tomorrow. He’d remember tomorrow.

 

With a happy sigh, Stiles fell asleep.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at last. 
> 
> I love all of you! Thank you so very much for all the love you've given this fic. It has meant the world me!
> 
> As always, please feel free to come chat with me on [Tumblr](https://mothdustmouth.tumblr.com/).

For the first time in months, Derek’s wolf wasn’t pacing back and forth in his mind. In fact, he couldn’t remember a time since his family’s death that he’d felt so… good. At peace. Warm. Content. And he wasn’t even awake yet, not really. There was something holding him back from full consciousness, something that begged to stay in this halfway land of sleepy bliss and contentment. 

 

He was warm, so warm. It felt nice. Something moved in his arms, squirmed and twisted until it settled down, Derek growling a gentle warning for it to be still. He like having it there. It was something he was supposed to protect. Something precious that he couldn’t let get damaged. Something that smelled divine, with a quick heartbeat and soft hair that he was nuzzling his face into as his own chest continued to resonate with a wolfy grumble.

 

His lips found their way to soft skin. An ear. Then down, down the column of the throat. Blood pulsing under the thin skin there. Divine scent. Bite. He needed to bite his mate there. Claim him. Claim Stiles.

 

Derek jerked fully awake.

 

Stiles moaned beneath him, caught halfway underneath Derek’s body, a hard length pressed into his thigh. Derek blinked down at the reddening spot on Stiles’ throat that he had been sucking on just seconds before.

 

All of his joints locked up, unsure of whether he wanted to advance or flee, and he stayed on top of Stiles, pressing him down into the mounds of blankets… Wait. This was a nest. He’d made a fucking den for his mate. Oh god. Oh  _ god. _

 

He looked down at Stiles, the honey-brown eyes blinking open to look at him. His lips still parted around sharp breaths. “Don’t stop,” Stiles complained, arching his neck back as far as he could while maintaining eye contact with Derek. When Derek still didn’t move, Stiles slid a persistent thigh between his legs, his warm skin shocking Derek into realizing that they were both still naked.

 

He looked at the marks again. There were older ones underneath the fresh, red blotch. Ones he’d left last night. Mouth shaped.  _ Teeth  _ shaped.

 

He was a monster. After just a few months of struggling to hold himself back, he’d succumbed. He’d taken what he’d wanted. It was a miracle he hadn’t bitten Stiles, hadn’t claimed him against his will. And here he was, about to do it all over again. Without so much as a conversation with his m-... with Stiles.

 

The feeling of desperate need that had been building in Derek since he’d first caught Stiles’ scent wasn’t really soothed. Last night had been like a single sip of water to a man dying of thirst. Derek wanted,  _ needed, _ more. The smell of them mingled together - their sweat and spit and come, their skin and breath and heat - had Derek shivering and grinding down, burying his face in the crook of Stiles’ throat. Stiles gasped out, “Yes!” and rolled his hips underneath him. 

 

For a horrible moment, Derek wondered if he could stop himself if Stiles didn’t want this, if Stiles tried to fight him off instead. Now that he’d partially claimed him, the wolf wanted its mate. It didn’t understand about consent or about boundaries, didn’t care about discussions of feelings and intentions. It just wanted Stiles. It thought that it  _ owned _ Stiles. 

 

_ Mine, _ the wolf seemed to growl in the back of Derek’s skull.  _ My mate. Mine. _

 

Derek whined, the sound muffled against the straining tendon of Stiles’ throat. His body moved to cover Stiles, instinctively protecting him while also holding him in place, one hand scrabbling up to Stiles’ hair, brushing forcefully over his scalp and then making its way up Stiles’ arm to his long-fingered hand, pinning it in place.

 

Stiles gasped and rolled more frantically below him, a smear of wetness dragging through the hair on Derek’s stomach. “Uh!” Stiles said, and “Derek,” straining up with his hips and his mouth, marking Derek with precome and searching for his lips. Derek was straining back to watch the man below him, horrified by himself but in awe of the lithe form taking its pleasure in Derek’s heavy weight.

 

“Derek, please,” Stiles pleaded, all of him arching up, pressing close, greedy and persistent. Demanding. With a groan, Derek relaxed forward the few inches required, and kissed him.

 

Stiles’ scent almost had a taste. Derek imagined that he caught it on his tongue when he was near. Not quite sweet… not quite like clove or cinnamon… not exactly like lemongrass or lavender. It was as maddening now as it had been that first day. Derek had no name for it other than  _ Stiles _ and  _ home _ and  _ mate. _

 

He tasted like he smelled. He tasted good. More than good. Derek chased it, delving into Stiles hot mouth, tongue searching, tasting, licking, getting deeper, catching heady hits of taste and scent.

 

Stiles jerked frantically beneath him, his moaning gasps devolving into a continuous sound in his throat and chest, words made impossible by Derek’s swirling tongue in his mouth. Stiles sobbed, Derek feeling his chest hitch, hearing the quick intake of breath through his nose. Then the boy was vocalizing loudly, Derek’s mouth still sealed possessively over his his, as he bucked wildly and then froze, shuddering. Derek smelled the release as he felt it wet the head of his own cock, the swollen head catching now and then at Stiles’ navel, sliding through his slick happy trail.

 

A few more thrusts against the slim body, and Derek’s knot swelled, hot and heavy, before bursting all over Stiles’ hip and stomach. He chased the rolling orgasm, slipping in his own release, pressing down to trap his knot as tightly as possible against Stiles’ body. He shivered into the short, pulsing thrusts that would have encouraged further pleasure from his mate if he were properly knotted, and ensuring his own steady flow of seed into their pliant body. Derek knew he couldn’t impregnate Stiles, but his biology didn’t, and it was working hard to try and insure a successful mating.

 

“There’s so much,” Stiles said, sounding dazed. He reached down, almost delicately, and ran a forefinger over the edge of Derek’s knot where it was exposed near Stiles’ hip. Derek groaned and instinctively bit down on Stiles’ shoulder, managing to hold back and avoid breaking the skin. “Holy shit,” was Stiles’ comment as Derek came on him again. “How many can you have?”

 

Derek unclenched his jaw, letting Stiles’ flesh go reluctantly. “Don’t know,” he panted. “Last night was-,” he grunted and rolled against Stiles again, licking at his throat a few times, hiding there. “It was the first time it’s happened like this.”

 

“This isn’t normal?” Stiles asked, eyes wide and seemingly innocent, except that he fingered Derek’s knot again as he rolled his hips up at the same time. “Oh god,” he said when Derek pulsed again, a smaller amount than before, though he squeezed his eyes closed with the same pleasure.

 

_ “Stiles,” _ Derek pleaded. He shook his head slightly and pulled back enough to look at Stiles’ face. “No, this isn’t normal for me. It’s only supposed to happen with-”

 

“With what?”

 

“With certain people,” Derek hedged, dropping is eyes.

 

“Like… with humans?”

 

“Not specifically.”

 

“Oh, uh, men? Like, same sex?”

 

“That really doesn’t have anything to do with it. Stiles, please, I’m not sure I’m up for having this conversation right now-”

 

“You’re doing it again.”   
  


“What?”

 

“Trying to hold your breath!” Stiles said, looking torn between feeling hurt and getting pissed off. He started to struggle and Derek’s wolf woke up instantly at that, pinning him down and holding him tight, a threatening growl escaping Derek’s throat. Stiles froze. “Fuck dude!” he exclaimed. “That should not be so goddamn hot.”

 

“Sorry, sorry,” Derek panted, inhaling against Stiles’ neck, deep hard breaths. “I just-”  _ inhale  _ “get lost.” He needed to taste him again, mark him again. His scent was wrapped around his brain. A permanent brand.

 

“Wait, you  _ like _ the way I smell?” Derek moaned and rolled his hips against him, chasing a fourth orgasm. He stretched up to get his nose in Stiles’ hair, huffing him in.

 

“Mm,” Derek agreed. “Makes me crazy. Can’t think. Your scent. It’s everywhere.”

 

“You’ve been holding your breath and opening windows when I’m around because… because you think I smell  _ nice?” _

 

“Better than nice,” Derek said. God he felt so drunk. Stiles took pity on him and reached between them again, tips of his fingers just brushing his fever-hot knot before Derek shuddered through another release.

 

Stiles gazed up at him, fascinated. Derek decided that he loved that look: Stiles one-hundred-percent focused on him, with his mouth slightly open and his lashes a bit wet, eyes alive and curious. Before he could stop himself, he was angling down to kiss him again, gentle and slow. He lingered and Stiles let him and it was so good. So perfect. 

 

A cell phone went off and Stiles sat up, bumping Derek’s mouth with his teeth and catching the thin skin of his lip. “Sorry!” Stiles said, covering his own mouth and then reaching out to Derek’s, his hand hesitant and jerky as his phone continued to play the old batman theme obnoxiously from the other room. “Sorry,” he said again, kicking his way out of the improvised nest. “I always answer, just in case… my dad, you know, sherif, guns, bad guys…” he called over his shoulder as he pranced naked down the hallway toward the front door where they had left most of their clothes.

 

_ Na-na-na-na-na-na-na Na-na-na-na-na-na-na BATMAN! Na-na-na-na-na-na-na Na-na-na-na-na-na-na BATMAN! Na-na-na-na-na-na-na Na-na-na-na-na-na-na BATMAN! _

 

Derek heard the ring finally stop as Stiles fished his cell out of his pants’ pocket. He listened, waiting for Stiles to greet the caller. Instead, there was silence and then a bit more fumbling and the sound of fabric. Probably Stiles getting dressed. Then silence again. Maybe Stiles was texting, not wanting Derek to overhear his conversation.

 

He looked around himself, taking in his surroundings for the first time in what must have been hours. It was late morning when Stiles had shown up, and the sun was just now starting to set. They had slept away the afternoon. Derek, for one, had desperately needed the reprieve. He had spent almost every night since Stiles broke the coffee mug awake and miserable. He thought about that mug now, realizing that Stiles had stayed away because he was trying to figure out how to make up for breaking it, though that had been the farthest thing from Derek’s mind.

 

That day - a little less than a week ago - Stiles had come looking for him when he was vulnerable, mourning his family after Laura had emailed him files of some of the saved family photos. More than that, Stiles had spread his scent, his  _ claim, _ into the last part of Derek’s apartment that he’d managed to keep for himself. 

 

In that highly emotional state, Stiles had been a balm over his ragged grief, calming and soothing him. But Derek knew it couldn’t stay so peaceful, had sensed it as he tracked through the apartment after Stiles, knowing that Stiles was emotional as well, that Stiles was… afraid. Of what he wasn’t sure, but he could scent the fear, along with the roiling heat of the Spark, of magic. 

 

It was a dangerous moment. He was actually glad Stiles had dropped the mug. It had cleared his mind for a second and allowed him to get out of the apartment and away from Stiles before instinct took over and he- well, did what he’d done this morning.

 

He looked around at the soft wall of pillows and blankets encircling his mattress, a broken hole where Stiles had wiggled free and fled the nest. He looked at the gaping spot in the little fortress, hating the way his chest hurt like he’d been kicked in the sternum. 

 

_ Adrenaline,  _ he told himself,  _ it’s just chemicals. Breathe. _ The old mantra from when he’d lost his family coming back to him…  _ Breathe, don’t think, don’t let that dark pit open up. Stay calm. Stay in reality. Breathe… _

 

He mentally kicked himself. Stiles had merely left the room to answer his phone. Stiles wasn’t angry, wasn’t hurt. He was just out there, safe, fine. No need to panic. 

 

Derek’s eyes went back to the gap in the nest. He swallowed hard, feeling strangled. Choking, quietly, desperately. 

 

_ Breathe… just breathe… _

 

Stiles waltzed back into the bedroom, boxers pulled crookedly over one hipbone, an arm flailing into his shirt sleeve as it settled into place over his head.

 

“That was just Scott,” Stiles said, tossing his phone onto Derek’s desk chair and stumbling over the blankets and pillows he’d kicked to the floor in his haste to get off the bed earlier. He bent and began picking them up, stacking them back on the bed while he talked. “I sent him a text asking if he was dying, and he said, no, he was just hungry, and now I’m ignoring him, because I really think I’ve earned the right, you know?”

 

He clambered back onto the mattress, all long limbs and flexing tendons, while Derek looked on helplessly. Stiles’ elegant hands spread out in front of him as he shifted his weight, scooching forward until he was more or less back in the circle of blankets. He pulled the pillows and covers after him, doing a shoddy job of putting them back in place, though he was clearly  making an effort. Still talking, he turned back to face Derek as he settled down, cross-legged and half-dressed.

 

“But, of course, him saying  _ he _ was hungry made me realize that  _ I’m _ hungry and, well, now we gotta do something about that. What about you, big guy? You must like, what? Burn tons of extra calories, right? Am I right? We need to feed you, stat, before you like, wolf out and go hunting for cats on the fire escape.”

 

Stiles looked up from his fussing with the impromptu nest, his long fingers plucking at his t-shirt, and his golden-brown eyes caught the last of the daylight as he smiled. Whatever was showing in Derek’s face made that smile go wobbly and then drop away.

 

“Hey, you, um, don’t have to eat with me, if you have stuff to do,” he said, obviously trying to give Derek an out. “I should probably head back home anyway… I have to, uh, study and stuff, so- oh, okay, no, this is good too,” Stiles squeaked, as Derek leaned forward and more or less fell into his lap, grabbing him around the waist with both arms and burying his face in the hollow beneath his ribs. 

 

Stiles let him stay there, even held him back as much as he could, though the angle was awkward and Derek didn’t make it any easier, his grip on Stiles tight and possessive. 

 

Stiles had come back, had gotten back in bed with him, had repaired the nest, their temporary den, and he wanted to care for Derek, to make sure he ate and… it was so much so fast. He was having trouble processing it.

 

“Okay… it’s okay,” Stiles murmured, caressing Derek’s head with his big hand. Derek was mortified to hear himself whimpering, unable to stop. He pushed his face tighter into Stiles’ stomach, smelling the both of them mixed together. The whines turned into moans, and he pushed Stiles over, nuzzling down into the crook of his throat and shoulder.

 

“Stiles,” he whispered, his voice wrecked and rasping. The graceful hand petted him, firm and insistent.

 

“I’m here, buddy. I’m here. It’s okay.” There was a bewildered quality to Stiles’ voice, though he seemed to instinctively know that Derek needed comfort and reassurance. Maybe it was Stiles’ natural insight. Maybe it was his magic. Derek wasn’t sure, but he was so grateful in that moment, squirming impossibly closer and blanketing the willing body beneath him.

 

_ “Stiles,” _ he said again, more desperate. He licked the salty-sweet skin he was rasping with his five o’clock shadow. “Mmm, so good.” His breath had no room against Stiles’ wet throat, getting lost in his warm flesh. “Stay. Please. Don’t…”

 

_ Don’t go. _

 

“It’s okay,” Stiles groaned, his hips beginning to move helplessly under Derek’s weight. “It’s okay, Derek. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here. I’m here… oh  _ god…” _

 

* * *

 

It was another hour before they were able to order food. Stiles sat in an armchair in the living room while they ate, one thumb reaching up to stroke the mark Derek had left on his throat. Derek tried to concentrate on using his chopsticks, managing to eat a few mouthfuls before staring at Stiles again.

 

It was awkwardly quiet now that they weren’t touching. Derek didn’t know what to do. The food was gone too fast, and they were left looking at one another over empty take-out cartons. Stiles tried for an amused chuckle, but Derek didn’t respond, and the tension between them grew thicker. Stiles gathered up the trash and Derek helped by rinsing out the two bottles of beer they had consumed with dinner, the alcohol doing nothing to loosen him up, of course.

 

He came back out into the living room as Stiles was pulling on his shoes, already redressed and wearing his jacket. He handed Derek the Superman mug that had been sitting on the floor near the door since that morning.

 

“Don’t drop it,” Stiles tried to joke, his smile tight. Derek gripped the mug carefully in both hands and just stared at Stiles. 

 

Now that Stiles was dressed, standing by the door, Derek couldn’t find the courage to ask him to stay. He was no less desperate to keep him, but now that Stiles wasn’t writhing beneath him, he couldn’t say the words.

 

“Um,” Stiles said, dropping his eyes from Derek’s to look at his feet, shuffling in place nervously. “I guess I’ll see you at the office?”

 

Silence. Derek was frozen, choked. Stiles wasn’t a wolf, he didn’t have the same instincts that Derek did. He didn’t know that he couldn’t leave Derek like this. Not after the connection they’d shared.

 

Stiles reeked of Derek. It was delicious. But the human had no idea, couldn’t scent it the way Derek could. Stiles’ magic must have been aware of the bond and Stiles had some degree of sensitivity to Derek’s scent, but it wouldn’t infect his brain the same way it did Derek’s.

 

He reached out to Stiles, letting the tips of his fingers brush down one arm, the padding of the jacket keeping him from feeling Stiles’ warmth. Stiles’ face softened, losing some of its nervousness. He leaned into Derek, his mouth coming closer, glancing soft and warm across Derek’s lips in a barely-there kiss before he retreated again. 

 

“I’ll see you later,” Stiles said softly, giving Derek one, real smile before slipping out the door. He listened to Stiles’ footsteps walking down the hall, then thumping down the stairs. He heard the sound of the Jeep’s engine turning over and idling in the parking lot for a few minutes, before Stiles put it in gear and drove off down the street, the engine noise blending into the rest of the cities’ drone. 

 

* * *

 

He couldn’t sleep, no matter how tight he wrapped himself up in the blankets that smelled the most like Stiles and buried his face in the boy’s pillow. He’ wasn’t proud of the fact that he was reduced to tears, trembling and alone. 

 

It was grief, the way wolves commonly reacted to being rejected by their mates. But Stiles was human. He didn’t know. It wouldn’t be fair to ask of a human what would be instinct to a werewolf. In the human world, Stiles’ world, people don’t move in together the first night they had sex. Not like wolves. If it were up to Derek, Stiles would have spent the night, and in the morning, he would have driven him over to the apartment he shared with Scott and helped him pack up all his stuff, bringing it home. Because Stiles belonged here. Stiles had claimed this space with his scent. He had claimed Derek and allowed Derek to claim him.

 

But that was the wolf’s way of looking at it. The human way was much more complicated, less straightforward. Stiles would want to date first. That is, if he wanted to pursue a relationship at all. This may have been a one time thing for Stiles. Derek knew that he would be lucky if Stiles wanted as much as a friends-with-benefits arrangement. Derek hadn’t laid much of the groundwork for a relationship by human standards. Allowing someone into your home didn’t hold the same weight for non-wolves. Building a nest just seemed crazy. Scenting just looked like cuddling. Protection looked like possessiveness. 

 

Somehow he made it through the long night without driving over to Stiles’ apartment and kidnapping him from his bed. It was a close thing, though. He just had to keep reminding himself that if he wanted a chance, even the slightest chance, of a real relationship with Stiles, then he would have to do this the human way, not the wolf way.

 

He wasn’t able to truly drop off to sleep, though he was able to doze a little towards dawn by gathering all the Stiles-scented pillows underneath him in a pile and hunkering down over the top of them, like he was holding Stiles in a smothering grip. It wasn’t enough to fool the wolf, but it was enough to calm him for an hour or so.

 

By the time the sun was coming up, Derek was just stepping out of the shower, after admitting to himself that he  _ had _ to wash Stiles’ scent off,  _ had _ to get ready for work, when his phone vibrated on the bathroom counter with a text.

 

**Stiles:** **_ok so you know that book your uncle has on NAT behavior?_ **

 

Derek swallowed painfully. He knew exactly which book Stiles was referring to. Goddammit, had Peter really given that to him?

 

**Derek:** **_Yes._ **

 

**Stiles:** **_well i read the section about wolves and what it means when you guys… make a nest_ **

 

Derek started to hyperventilate.

 

**Stiles:** **_we need to talk_ **

 

He could feel his heart beating frantically. The icy feeling of too much adrenaline flooded his system.

 

**Stiles:** **_i have to run an errand and i’ll be late to clean, but can we talk tonight at the office around 9?_ **

 

Derek’s stomach churned. 

 

**Derek:** **_Okay. See you then._ **

 

**Stiles:** **_k_ **

 

Derek didn’t even feel the phone fall from his numb fingers and land on the bathmat at his feet.

 

* * *

 

“You  _ what?!” _

 

“Laura, I didn’t mean to!” Derek paced in their uncle’s guest bedroom, his own apartment smelling too much like Stiles for him to think clearly. He’d come over after calling into work and taking half the day off, claiming he had an appointment and would be in after lunch.

 

“Did you bite him?”

 

“Not hard enough to break the skin.”

 

“Derek!”

 

“I wasn’t thinking clearly, okay? He just… his scent…  _ god!” _

 

“And he knows?”

 

“Well, he does  _ now. _ That goddamned book.  _ Fuck _ Peter. I could have pretended I wasn’t bonded, could have tried to date him like a human would, but if he knows, then I have no chance.  _ None.”  _ He stopped his pacing to sit on the bed, head in his hands. He wanted to throw himself onto it and scream, but he didn’t want to come across as even more melodramatic than he already was, so he didn’t. 

 

Laura was sighing and rubbing her forehead. “Well, we know he likes you, that much is obvious. If you just, I don’t know,  _ stay cool, _ maybe you can salvage this.”

 

Derek groaned, shaking his head while his face stayed covered by his hands. “The stupid book says that werewolves bite their mates. On the fucking throat. And that we don’t like other people touching them or talking to them or looking at them. God, that book makes us sound like such possessive assholes.”

 

“Well-”

 

“Shut up, Laura, I don’t care if it’s true, I just don’t see that Stiles needs to  _ know _ that. I could hide it.”

 

Laura sorted. “Sure, ‘cause you’ve done  _ such _ a good job at hiding your feelings…”

 

“More than you know, actually,” Derek groaned. “He… he thought that I don’t like the way he smells.”

 

“What?! You practically salvate everytime you so much as get a  _ whiff _ of him.”

 

_ “I _ know that. Other _ wolves  _ know that. But he’s a Spark. One whose magic isn’t harnessed yet. He has no training. He… he thought I was germaphobic and that I hated his scent…”

 

“Oh my god.” Laura stood in front of him, eyes wide, before doubling over with laughter. “Oh. My.  _ God!” _

 

“Shut up! It’s not funny.” Derek growled as his sister landed on the bed next to him, tears in her eyes and holding her ribs in pain.

 

“He thought you were a germaphobic shut-in! No wonder he was always trying so hard to keep your place clean. Oh my god. Derek! How did you manage that?”

 

“He…” Derek dropped his head. “He noticed me holding my breath-” Laura interrupted with a giggle, “-and opening windows a lot when he was around…”

 

“Oh, baby bro,” she gasped. “This whole time he was worried that you thought you’d get cooties when you really just wanted to jump him and plug him full of-”

 

“Laura!”

 

“Sorry, sorry,” she said, finally winding down from her fit of hysterics. She took a deep breath and then rested her head on his shoulder. He leaned his ear against her warm hair and sighed, grateful for the comfort despite her teasing. “He said he wanted to talk?” Laura asked after a moment.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Well, look on the bright side,” Laura said, draping her arm around him and patting his back. “He read that chapter on werewolf mating habits and he’s still willing to talk to you face to face,  _ alone.  _ He must like you a lot. And  _ trust _ you a lot, damn. Not many humans would be willing to hang around a wolf after reading that chapter. It’s traumatizing even to other wolves. I can’t believe Peter allowed us to read it when we were teenagers.”

 

“It’s educational.” Derek could feel himself blushing, recalling some of the diagrams in the book. 

 

Laura snorted, standing back up and hunting through her purse. “Well, he obviously was somewhat educated going into your, uh, hookup.” She ignored Derek’s growl as she fished out her lip balm. “I mean, did he freak out about the whole, uh, surprise orange at the base of your banana?”

 

“Seriously?” Derek felt his blush grow a deeper shade of crimson.

 

“Hey, you think this is easy for me to talk about? I know how your anatomy works, okay, it doesn’t mean I wanna say the k-word to my baby brother.”

 

“God, fine. He wasn’t shocked, alright? In fact he…” Derek stopped speaking and shifted uncomfortably on the bed.

 

“Was way into your citrus?” Laura asked, one eyebrow raising.

 

“Oh my god.”

 

“You impressed him with your fruit cocktail?”

 

“Please stop.”

 

“Does he take his banana split with an extra scoop of vanilla ice cream?” She ducked out of the way as Derek swung a pillow at her and ran around the other side of the bed shrieking. He got her with a throw pillow, lobbing it at her head, and she pretend-snarled at him and flashed her eyes, pouncing at him and getting him in a headlock. They rough-housed for a few minutes, until he started to tickle one of her flailing feet and she yielded, choking because she was laughing so hard.

 

Derek lay in the floor while Laura had the bed, and every now and then a giggle would come from his sister, like she hadn’t quite wound down yet. “I missed you,” he said, surprising himself. Laura’s flushed face appeared from over the side of the mattress. 

 

“I missed you too, you idiot,” she smiled.

 

* * *

 

Stiles didn’t show up at nine o’clock. Or nine fifteen. Or nine twenty. By the time the elevator doors opened at nine-twenty-three and revealed the quick patter of Stiles’ heart, Derek had just enough time to extract his claws from the padded armrests of a lounge chair were he was forcing himself to sit still, and make it back behind his desk, pretending to work.

 

The office door opened and Stiles rushed in, messenger bag slung around his slim body and already talking full-speed.

 

“I’m sorry I’m late. They didn’t have the thing I needed at the first store I went to and the second one doesn’t even exist anymore, so that was a waste of time. And then the guy at the place I finally found was creepy as fuck, and probably a NAT, by the way. Keep an eye out for a guy with a mullet named Randy. Trust me, you do  _ not _ want to see the special collector’s items he has in the back of his shop.”

 

Stiles made it to Derek’s desk, slumping down in one of the guest chairs and digging through his bag. Derek’s throat felt tight when a red book landed on the desktop between them. Stiles leaned forward and seemed to be choosing his words carefully.

 

“You were growling,” he said. Derek looked at him, not understanding. “Several times, I’ve picked up this feeling - this tingling sensation - with my magic,” Stiles explained, gesturing along with his words, his fingertips seeming to flash with electricity for a brief second. “I wasn’t sure what it was at first, but it was always when someone else was about to touch me. You were warning them off. And because of my spark, I was starting to pick up on it. It sort of tickles,” Stiles said, smiling.

 

Derek just stared at him, remembering all the times that he had, in fact, warned other wolves - mainly Peter - away from Stiles. He hadn’t intended for him to find out, however. 

 

“Growling,” Stiles said, reaching out and tapping the book’s cover with an insistent finger. “Scent marking. Nest building.” A tap for each phrase. “Derek,” Stiles’ hand went flat on top of the red leather of the book, “do you think I’m your mate?”

 

Derek’s eyes flashed reflexively, his throat tightening up in panic. He’d expected to get the _ ‘sorry, this isn’t going to work, I’m not into possessive occult monsters,’  _ but he hadn’t thought that Stiles would be so blunt about it. Talking about mates… that was a serious thing. It was like humans talking about their soulmate. It’s not something to be mocked or laughed at, as silly and old-fashioned as it might seem.

 

“Wow, uh,” Stiles said, swallowing thickly. “Those were your eyes just now. Uh, they turned gold. Yeah. That wasn’t like, super hot. Hot like burning. Or anything. Not at all. Oh god, I’m talking out loud. Fuck. Okay. We were talking about mates stuff. Right. So like, am I? Your mate, I mean.”

 

Fuck.

 

“Yes.” His voice was deep, verging on the shift, every muscle tensed. Stiles wet his lips, his eyes wide.

 

“How, uh,” Stiles cleared his throat. “How long have you known?”

 

“The first night.”

 

“Wait, the first night I…? Here? Right here? The first night I saw you?”

 

“Yes,” Derek forced out, his voice like gravel.

 

“Holy shit,” Stiles hushed out in awe. “But, you didn’t- I mean the the book says that you guys claim your mates right away and-”

 

“That’s not the way humans do it,” Derek managed. He could do this. He could have a conversation about this. No problem. He resisted wiping the anxious sweat from his forehead. 

 

“Yeah, but the book says that the urge is pretty strong, so-”

 

“You’re human,” Derek said again, trying to get Stiles to understand. “You don’t work like that. With another wolf, they would know. But to you, it would just seem like I was attacking you. You wouldn’t be able to sense that we were, that we are...”

 

“Mates?”

 

“Yes.” Derek let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. It was a relief in a way, to finally be admitting this to Stiles. He may not get to keep Stiles, but maybe the other man would understand. That was the most he could hope for. 

 

Stiles’ eyes dropped to Derek’s chest, trailing back up. He bit his bottom lip. “And you held back? Was it easier because I’m human… or I’m not very appealing to you-”

 

Derek growled at that. Loud. Stiles flushed, his eyes going bright. “I held back,” Derek managed around the sudden fangs in his mouth, “because I’m not a rapist. Not because I find you unattractive.”

 

Stiles was staring at his mouth. Not in fear, as Derek would have assumed before this very interesting conversation, but with what looked an awful lot like lust.

 

“Fuck,” Stiles murmured. “Wow, I really wanna-” he shook his head, trying to refocus. “Derek,” he said, and Derek looked at him, holding as still as he could, though his cock was filling and lengthening at the look in Stiles’ eyes, at the smell of him, and it was all he could do not rock his hips for a bit of friction. “Derek,” Stiles said again, losing the train of his thought and then regathering it. “Do you? Want me as your mate?”

 

Derek wanted to answer that question with a logical, well thought-out argument. Something about taking things at Stiles’ pace, if Stiles was willing to give dating him a chance. Something eloquent and persuasive. What he managed was to flash his eyes again and whimper pitifully while muling, “Yes, Stiles, _ yes.” _

 

Rather than running away screaming, Stiles eyes dilated impossibly further. “Right. Right, okay then. So uh. The book-” he tore his eyes away from Derek’s no doubt terrifyingly needy face to stare at the red book on the desk between them “- the book says that you will want to, uh, claim me properly.” Derek whined and dropped his head on his arms, holding his elbows with clawed fingers. “Meaning that you will bite me and, uh, knot me.” Derek’s whine turned into a guttural moan, not even bothering to hide the fact that his hips were rolling in his chair, trying to find some relief. 

 

“Stiles,” he rasped. “Please.”

 

“So… you… really want this? Because I do.”

 

Derek’s head popped up, his eyes burning with tears and their werewolf glow. “Yes, Stiles,” he managed to get out clearly. “I want you.”

 

Stiles sucked in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Okay,” he said, “I was hoping you would say that. That’s why I had to run an errand before we talked.” He rummaged around in his messenger bag, hefting out a black plastic bag from its depths. Upending the bag over the desk, a rather large, rectangular box fell out. On the side was a picture of an enormous dildo, a knot placed more or less in the same position Derek’s was.  _ Howl with pleasure, _ the swirling text proclaimed.  _ Realistic werewolf dildo for his or her SUPERNATURAL fantasy play. _

 

Derek looked up at Stiles for an explanation, puzzled and worried. Did Stiles not want him for some reason? Was this a substitute? He didn’t understand.

 

“You’re huge,” Stiles said, his cheeks burning. “Really, really huge. And I’ve never… never done anything, really. With someone else. So I thought that I’d, you know, start smaller,” he grabbed a second bag and dropped a smaller box next to the first one, this time containing a normal-sized human dildo, “and work up to it. Cause I want it, Derek, I really really want it… But if I don’t warm up to it, you are going to split me in half.”

 

Derek’s mouth was hanging open. He kept looking from Stiles’ new dildo collection up to his face and back again, all sorts of thoughts firing in his brain. 

 

“Derek?’

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Did I break you?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Stiles smiled fondly at him, stuffing the bewildering boxes back in his bag. Once they were out of sight, he set the messenger bag on the guest chair and walked around to Derek’s side of the desk, smirking playfully at him.

 

“I can help,” Derek said, not realizing what was going to come out of his mouth until he gave voice to it. “With that,” he gestured to the bag. “I’ll be gentle.”

 

“God, I’m so fucking lucky,” Stiles murmured, and kissed him.

 

Derek stood up and pulled Stiles to him, trying not to crush him, trying to reveal just how desperate he was to have Stiles close, to taste him again. His taste, his scent, were consuming him, crashing into him and through him. He briefly pulled back from the kiss, Stiles sitting on his desk with his legs spread, and Derek in between them, to look in Stiles’ eyes for a moment. To make sure. 

 

Stiles looked back at him, open and longing, reaching to pull Derek back in, and Derek finally accepted that this was really happening. Smiling briefly, Derek ran his palms over Stiles head then down his arms, obliterating any lingering scents from outside, claiming him as his own. Licking more than kissing, he attacked Stiles’ mouth and then worked down his neck, worrying the spot on his throat where all his instincts told him to bite. But not yet. Not yet. They would need to talk about that part first. There would be blood. And pain. True, Stiles magic might mean that he found pleasure in the bite, in their magic melding together through their blood. There was time though. They could date a little first. Make sure that Stiles really wanted this. That he really wanted to be bonded to a werewolf. Had he thought this through? Derek needed to make sure. He didn’t want Stiles to have regrets. He wanted to protect him, from himself if necessary.

 

As if sensing that Derek was thinking too much, Stiles wiggled forward off the desk and stood up in front of Derek. He reached for Derek’s top shirt button and Derek’s mind suddenly went quiet, focused on Stiles.

 

“Tell me, what do your wolf ears hear?” Stiles smirked, as he tugged at Derek’s shirt, fumbling the buttons open one by one. “Is there anyone else in the office?”

 

Derek listened for a moment, just to double check, though he knew for a fact that the last employee had left hours ago.

 

“We’re alone,” Derek confirmed, shivering when Stiles pulled his shirt down his arms, briefly trapping his hands before pulling the garment free. 

 

“Good,” Stiles said, that smirk still on his face as he greedily took in Derek’s body, dressed now in just his undershirt and slacks. He pulled at Derek’s cotton shirt, getting it up and over his head, before tossing it to the side and immediately going for Derek’s chest with his hands spread wide, as though trying to touch all of him at once. “I am so fucking lucky,” he murmured again to himself, eyes and hands all over Derek’s upper body, before reaching for his belt.

 

Derek let Stiles work at his clothes, trying to let him set the pace. He needed to keep himself under control. As Stiles himself had pointed out, he would need a lot of careful prep before they attempted knotting for the first time. The first time. Oh god, Stiles was a virgin. Derek had known that, but had never allowed himself to dwell on it. But if Stiles was actually his, actually gave himself to Derek, it would be his first. His  _ only, _ the wolf growled menacingly.

 

He felt his pants slips down his hips, followed by Stiles’ hands under his briefs, a palm on each asscheek, before his underwear was pushed down too, joining his pants on the floor. Derek stepped on the heel of one shoe, then the other, working them off before kicking his pants away.

 

Stiles was staring over his shoulder, out the window, and at first Derek was a little disappointed that Stiles wasn’t looking at him, until he realized that Stiles was gazing at the reflection of him in the window. 

 

“Sweet mother of god,” Stiles breathed. “Look at that ass.” He moved into Derek, sliding his arms down his back, watching raptly in the mirror-like reflection of the glass behind them. He grasped Derek’s asscheeks, one in each hand, and after rolling them and squeezing them in his palms, Stiles pulled them apart so that he could see Derek’s hole. The movement surprised Derek as much as it turned him on. He had fingered himself before and liked it, but serious ass play had never been a part of his sex life, whether with others or alone. Being a male wolf, he had always been expected to top, and so no one had been particularly interested in that part of him before, beyond liking the way his ass looked in jeans.

 

But Stiles was moaning from the sight alone, turning to kiss Derek fervently, only to tear himself away and stare back at Derek’s reflection again. “Can I?” Stiles asked, breathing hard as Derek gave into the temptation to suck at his neck again. 

 

“Yes,” he said.  _ Of course, _ he thought.  _ Anything. _ Anything Stiles wanted he could have. He felt one of Stiles’ long fingers slipping down his crack, while the other hand splayed over an asscheek, keeping Derek splayed open. When his dry finger gently brushed Derek’s entrance, they both moaned. Stiles stroked gently, reverently, not trying to push in, just feeling him, just watching him.

 

“You’re so hot,” Stiles murmured, watching their reflections intently as he rutted forward slightly, his clothed body rubbing against Derek’s naked one. Derek found himself liking it. A lot. He instinctively trusted Stiles and where he was taking this. Although he had never really found the appeal of overt power dynamics in sex, there was something about being naked and vulnerable while Stiles was fully dressed and in control. 

 

He turned his face and whimpered into Stiles’ neck as the stroking became more insistent, wishing Stiles would breach him, even with dry fingers, just to feel him closer. 

 

“Derek, I…” Stiles blushed, his skin going even warmer where it was pressed against Derek. His finger continued to stroke, getting more desperate, petting the entire length of Derek’s crack, searching behind his balls before returning to his hole. “There’s… there’s something I’ve really wanted to try. Please?”

 

“Of course,” Derek agreed immediately. “Anything.”

 

Stiles groaned and kissed him deeply before pulling away completely. Derek watched him as Stiles moved to circle around him. Those firm hands were on his back, pushing him forward until he was bracing himself on his desk, legs spreading winder as Stiles’ foot gently prompted his ankles.

 

Those hands traced a hot line down each side of his spine, ending up clutching his asscheeks again, kneading forcfully as Stiles’ mouth trailed down his back. Derek heard Stiles’ knees hit the floor and there was a puff of hot, moist breath on his hole as Stiles spread him. Stiles paused, Derek’s sensitive hearing picking up several soft curse words before Stiles leaned in a proceeded to eat him out within an inch of his life.

 

Derek was glad that he kept the surface of his desk cleared of knick knacks and ornaments, because they all would have gone crashing to the floor as his arms scrambled across the polished surface, his startled moan turning deep and desperate in within seconds. How? How could a tongue in his ass feel like that? It was lighting up all his nerve endings, spreading a slow, sweet burn throughout his lower body. Stiles’ lapping tongue somehow felt connected to his dick, his knot slowly swelling at the base, not fully popped, but throbbing steadily in time to his heart beat.

 

_ “Uhh _ . Stiles. That feels so _ good.”  _

 

Stiles hummed against him, not pulling away, his tongue continuing to push into him, then suck back out, languidly, like Stiles couldn’t get enough. Like he was planning on doing this to him all night. Derek’s legs began to tremble.

 

Stiles trailed a hand up one shaking thigh, moaning into him, before pulling him farther apart with both thumbs and continuing the pulsing administrations to Derek’s swelling flesh. He imagined Stiles’ lips getting puffy, looking like he had been kissed deeply as he ate Derek out. His hole felt like that too- swollen like a French-kissed mouth.

 

“Stiles!” Derek gasped helplessly, the desk taking most of his weight now as his legs shook uncontrollably. He was embarrassed about being reduced to a desperate mess so easily. It was beyond anything he had felt before, and it had everything to do with the fact that this was Stiles, his mate, and he was worshiping Derek’s body happily, lovingly.

 

Derek sobbed and jerked forward, Stiles getting impossibly deeper, moaning almost as loud as Derek was. He was so close. So close. But the edge remained elusive, toyed with. The pleasure cresting but never falling over edge. He heard himself begging for Stiles, asking him please, please, over and over again. For what he didn’t know. But he couldn’t stay like this for much longer without losing his mind. The sweet burn was consuming him, spreading through the tight, virginal cluster of nerves inside, up his shaft to the weeping tip of his dick, down his thighs, up his spine. All of him melting, boiling, buring.

 

Suddenly Stiles was gone, leaving Derek slumped forward on the desk, naked and shaking. “It’s okay,” he heard from a few feet away. “It’s okay baby, I’m right here. I’m just getting lube.” Derek heard the sound of crinkling plastic, of packaging being shredded. “I bought some to go with my new toys. Thank god.”

 

Then he was back, stroking down Derek’s flanks, warm and present. Derek sobbed and turned his head against the hard surface of the desk. “Please.”

 

“Yes,” Stiles agreed, seeming to know what Derek was asking for, even if he himself didn’t. He was draped over Derek now, blanketing him.  _ Good mate, _ Derek thought hazily. He had chosen well.

 

Those long fingers were back at his entrance. Wet this time. Slippery, breaching him slowly. Yes. Yes. That’s what he wanted. They delved deeper than his tongue had, as good as that had been. The fingers searched, making questing movements, and then-  _ “Ah! Stiles!” _

 

“Shh, shh baby, I got you,” Stiles soothed, petting his flank to gentle him. A few minutes passed in a haze, Stiles working more fingers in as they curled in unison, melting Derek into a shuddering puddle on the hard surface of the desk. He managed to get his forearms under him, propping himself up, trying to gain a small amount of control over the rising pleasure he was feeling. The slow burn of being brought to the edge while Stiles had rimmed him began flooding back, until he found himself in that same desperate place again, so close to fully popping his knot, from climaxing. Yet it was also torturously aloof.

 

“Mmm,” Derek said, “Stiles, _ please.”  _

 

“Do we need a condom,” Stiles asked. He sounded like he already knew the answer, but was just checking with Derek to make sure.

 

“No,” Derek gasped. “Safe with me. Can’t get anything, can’t give anything. Safe,” he repeated, wanting Stiles to know that, whatever happened, even with this, Stiles was safe with him.

 

He heard Stiles push is pants down, his fingers disappearing while he wet his cock, the noise his fist made clear and distinct in the quiet room. Then Stiles was holding him open again, one hand slick and cool where in gripped him, the other warm and dry.

 

“Oh fuck,” Stiles said, talking to himself. “This is going to feel so good.” Then he was pushing in and they were both moaning with the sensation of it. “God, oh god,” Stiles muttered. “I’m not going to last, baby. I’m sorry.” He began to thrust almost immediately, Derek pushing back on his elbows to meet him.

 

“S’okay, Stiles,” Derek managed. “S’okay. Just. Touch me. When you are going to. We’ll… together…”

 

“Yeah. yeah, okay,” Stiles agreed, speeding up.

 

Stiles hadn’t been exaggerating. It was scarcely a minute before he was moaning like he was dying, muttering and swearing to himself. 

 

“Oh god! Can’t! Uh! Derek!”

 

A hand reached around, the lubed one, and grabbed Derek around his knot squeezing as he pounded against his prostate.

 

“Fuck,” Derek whispered and came all over the desk.

 

* * *

 

Stiles bit him first. 

 

It was right after he moved into Derek’s apartment, after exactly one official date. When Derek reassured him they could take it slow, Stiles just shrugged and said, “Wolf rules for sex, speed of relationship, and bonding stuff. Human rules for possessiveness and growling at Scott.”

 

“But, he grabbed you.”

 

“He was hugging me goodbye.”

 

“It lasted too long.”

 

“We've been best friends since kindergarten.”

 

“But-”

 

“Human rules with Scott!”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Fine.”

 

Afterwords, they’d gotten in bed, Derek working Stiles with his fingers, then the human-sized dildo. Then the human-sized dildo and some of Derek’s fingers. He skipped the large dildo, and did the final step himself, Stiles riding him so he could control the pace. He bit Derek on the throat has they orgasmed, and Derek shook and cried, overwhelmed with the emotion of finally being claimed. Of being wanted. Of belonging to Stiles.

 

He returned the bite, later, when he was rocking into Stiles in the middle of the night, murmuring to him from above where he was stretched out over Stiles’ back protective and possessive. He sunk his fangs in slowly, gently, feeling the sweet skin parting around his sharp teeth the way Stiles’ body was parting at its core for Derek’s knot.

 

Afterwards, he licked at the stinging flesh and whispered praise to his mate.

 

His mate.

 

“I’m keeping Peter’s magic sex book,” Stiles insisted, cradled in Derek’s arms. “There are some very educational diagrams.’

 

“Sure thing, Sparky.”

 

“No. That will, under  _ no _ circumstance, become a nickname.” Stiles bopped Derek’s nose. “Bad.” 

 

Derek made an affronted face. “The cleaning staff is getting uppity.”

 

“Uppity!? Are you a hundred?”

 

Derek just nuzzled into him.

 

“See if I buy you any more collector’s mugs, buddy.”

 

“You need one,” Derek murmured, pulling him closer, collecting him half underneath him. Safe.

 

“Nightwing!? Can I have Nightwing?”

 

“I dunno. I think there’s a character named Sparky.”

 

_ “Spark, _ Derek, her name is  _ Spark.” _

 

“Close enough,” Derek said nuzzling in even closer. “Go to sleep. School tomorrow. Cleaning tomorrow. We left my desk pretty messy.”

 

“I am not a maid.”

 

“Would you wear the costume, though?”

 

He was not expecting the squeak Stiles made at that, his blood thundering in his chest. Derek made a mental note to look into a French maid costume for Stiles.

 

And a feather duster.

 

With real feathers.

 

He smiled into Stiles’ warm skin, preparing to sleep.  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you'd like to know what happened when Stiles went shopping for that dildo: [Randall's Naughty NATs Adult Boutique](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13383759)


End file.
